


Natural Remedies

by grayseeker



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Cultural Differences, Discussion of Abortion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mech Preg, Medical Procedures, Medicinal Drug Use, Multi, Other, Oviposition, Past Rape/Non-Con (mentioned), Past Relationship(s), Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tentacles, Transformer Sparklings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-06-23 10:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 53,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayseeker/pseuds/grayseeker
Summary: Insecticons had what he needed? Really? Since when? Only a very expensive, very illegal drug could control his heat-cycle and numb the pain of Breakdown's death. That was gone, now, thanks to government busybodies, but the giant bugs were offering a substitute. Knock Outshouldshoo them away. He knew what Insecticons were like. Except... maybe he didn't.





	1. We Dig Good Tunnels

**Author's Note:**

> **Acknowledgments:** Many, _many_ thanks, along with doggy pics and virtual chocolate go to my fearless beta, [Biting_Moopie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/biting_moopie/pseuds/biting_moopie), who went through every single chapter of this and made the most incredibly useful suggestions. Without you, my freaky bugseks story never would have gotten off the ground. Further thanks go to [Dark Star of Chaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkDecepticon/pseuds/Dark%20Star%20Of%20Chaos) for endless encouragement, brainstorming and research assistance, as well as for providing stellar name-divining services. Dark is the mastermind behind the names Carapax, Scuttle, Rangemaster, and of 'Bull' as the descriptive term for a certain category of Insecticons. Last but not least, many thanks to [Novaspark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novaspark/pseuds/Novaspark) for being my resident Knock Out expert and assisting me with characterization.

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

PART ONE

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

Knock Out set his hands on the desk. "Fine. How much do you want this time?"

Pharma sighed. "I'm not kidding, Knock. I've had some real, actual—"

"Supply issues, yes," Knock Out hissed through clenched dentae. "I think we're both aware of what that's code for. How much, Pharm? You know I'm good for it."

Pharma tilted a brow-ridge. "You've already blown through the supply I gave you?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"It's a valid question. Speaking as your physician, I have to say—"

Knock Out lunged, bringing them faceplate to faceplate. "You're my dealer! Not my doctor. Now stop playing games and tell me how much!" He hated the desperate edge in his tone, but there was no helping it.

"Dealer is a rather harsh term," Pharma replied, unperturbed. "In either case, though, I have a vested interest in keeping my clients healthy. Don't you think you might be overdoing things?"

Knock Out glanced toward the office door. Pharma's receptionist had gone home for the day and the waiting room was empty. Still, Knock Out dropped his voice when he admitted, "I've had some bad heats."

"Oh, please. No one's heats are _that_ bad."

"What would you know about it? You're mostly Praxian!"

"Three quarters," Pharma admitted. It was obvious at a glance anyway. Pharma might have wings, but anyone could plainly tell that he wasn't a pure Seeker. "All right, tell you what," he said, rising from his chair. Standing at full height, he towered over Knock Out, forcing him to glance up. He crossed to his supply cupboard, pulled out a box of samples and set them on his desk. "I've got some Placidoquil," he said, holding up small packet, "and I'm sure I have some Serentex somewhere in here—"

"I've tried all that stuff!" Knock Out snapped. "None of it works! Nothing does except Halcynol."

"Which just happens to be illegal, and therefore subject to occasional… supply interruptions," Pharma replied. "Apparently, there's been some sort of drug-bust out in the sector where it's mined and processed. I'll let you know the moment I hear from my supplier, but in the meantime…" his gaze swept the length of Knock Out's frame "…there _are_ other ways of dealing with a heat. I've heard the traditional method is still quite effective, and if you need any help with that, don't hesitate to call on Doc Pharma. I'd be more than pleased to consult with you."

Knock Out snorted. "Is that your _professional_ recommendation?"

Pharma dropped his lanky frame back in his chair. "Consider it a prescription," he said, sprawling his legs wide. "As many well know, I'm a big, _firm_ believer in natural remedies." 

"Oh, I just _bet_ you are."

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

"Natural remedies my aft," Knock Out snarled later. He was on his hands and knees, cheekplate jammed against the cold tiles of his washracks floor as he strained to reach a bottle that had rolled underneath his vanity. The contents of said vanity were scattered over his normally pristine floor and countertop. His galley and berthroom were in similar shape. He'd ransacked his entire penthouse from floor to ceiling. 

He'd also spent an inordinate amount of time chatting up some of the back alley dealers in the local black-market ecosystem. He'd done it by private comm, of course. It was bad enough that Pharma knew his secret. He couldn't risk word getting out more generally, because if his clients ever learned the truth about him, they'd abandon him _en masse_. 

Seekers weren't supposed to be doctors, and his heat cycle—the lone Seeker characteristic he hadn't been able to stamp out through surgery—was a dead giveaway. Only a handful of frametypes had them: Predacons, Insecticons and Seekers, to be exact. In other words, the so-called 'bestial' types. Praxians had them too, of course, being related to Seekers, but theirs were milder. They referred to them as 'pulses,' and had devised elaborate rituals to make the process seem more… genteel.

Knock Out's heats were anything but genteel. His spark was already racing. His arm shook as he stretched for the bottle of pills, and the floor seemed blisteringly cold against his overheated plating. Soon, he'd feel the first twinges of cramping in his gestational chamber. From there, it was all downhill. Within a joor—two, at most—he'd devolve into a horny wreck, incapable of having a normal conversation or of thinking about anything besides fragging.

He couldn't show up at his office like that. He _certainly_ couldn't perform surgeries. And his heats usually lasted at least an orn. They were savage, unstoppable things, and not to be appeased through such half-measures as could be found in his arsenal of sex toys. Those were about as effective against his heat as a gossamer web would be in stopping a tidal wave. 

So it all came down to this: one pill-bottle which might well be empty and was, in any case, just beyond reach of his claws. Frag it. He jammed his energon prod under the vanity. There was barely room, but after a few tries he was able to scoop the bottle towards himself. He seized it, yanked it open—and groaned. 

There were two capsules inside. He bit one in half, swallowed it, and subspaced the bottle. Half a capsule wasn't enough, but maybe it would slow things down long enough for… what, exactly? His conversations with the other dealers had been enough to convince him that Pharma hadn't been lying. There really was some kind of shortage, and no one he'd spoken to had been able to give an E.T.A. for when it was likely to end. That left one option. Well, two, if he counted Pharma's proposed 'remedy.'

He staggered up. The room spun, and as Knock Out grabbed the edge of the vanity he caught sight of his reflection. Great Primus, he was a mess. He looked haggard and almost… well, feral. Not exactly the image he liked to project when trying to convince his clients he could make them beautiful. He made his way to the galley, poured himself a finger of hi-grade, and activated his comm. 

"First Aid here," a familiar voice answered. "What's up, Knock?"

Knock Out gritted his dentae. "Hey, First Aid," he said. "Any chance you could take my appointments for tomorrow? Something's come up. I'm going to have to—"

"Oh, of course!" his assistant replied. "I hope you're not sick?"

Damn First Aid. He was always so… _cheerful._ It was annoying at the best of times. At a time like this, it was downright twitch-inducing.

"I'm fine," Knock Out replied. "I'm just a bit… under the weather." Or some other force of nature. Such as hormones.

"No problem," First Aid chirped. "I'll reschedule anyone I can't fit in. Any idea when you'll be back?"

Ah, that _was_ the question, wasn't it? Knock Out was striving to concoct a reply when a rhythmic tapping echoed through the penthouse. It was loud, deliberate, and… frag, was someone _knocking_ on his balcony door? Fifty stories up? 

Knock Out set down his drink. "I'll get back to you."

Moving silently, he activated his prod and started across his living room. The blinds were drawn, but he could see an inky shadow hunched on the balcony outside. It seemed to have wings.

 _Pharma,_ he told himself, wanting it to be true. He _could_ fly, after all, and though Knock Out hadn't heard the sound of an approaching jet, Pharma could have been using his anti-gravs. Those would be much quieter. 

"Give it up, Pharm," he called loudly. "If I'm ever in the mood for a walk on the skeevy side, I can certainly find better options than—"

He yanked the blinds open, and froze. Neither of the two gigantic forms squatting on his balcony bore the slightest resemblance to Pharma. His battle protocols came instantly online, banishing his heat symptoms. Who knew that the cure for what ailed him could be as simple finding a pair of Insecticons on his balcony? Talk about your natural remedies. 

"Shoo!" he hissed, brandishing the prod. "Scat! Go squat on someone else's doorstep!"

Neither of the creatures moved. They stared at him stupidly for a moment, then one opened its jaws. "You doctor," it stated.

"Why yes," Knock Out replied. "Me doctor, you pest. Now go away!"

The creature raised a clawed arm, pointing toward a neon-lit billboard on the city skyline. It showed Knock Out's handsome, smiling face along with a medical crest and the words, "Facing forward: When you can afford the very _best_ in cosmetic care."

"You _best_ doctor," the second Insecticon stated. It was identical to its companion, except that it had a copper-brown sheen to its plating, while the first was cobalt-steel. "We hire."

The copper-brown nodded toward the blue one, which scurried forward with a container filled with small, dimly-glowing energon crystals. The creature executed an awkward bow as it set the container outside Knock Out's door. Knock Out stared at the crystals, then at the creatures, incredulous.

"Hire?" he repeated. "I don't think so. For one thing, those aren't exactly hi-grade, are they? Even if I did make house-calls—which I don't—those wouldn't begin to cover my fee. For another, I'm a cosmetic surgeon, not a vet. However…" he paused, mouth twitching with amusement as another thought struck him "…I _do_ know a doctor who can help you out. His name's Pharma, and you can find him at—"

"Insecticons not want other doctor," the copper-brown bug interrupted. "Insecticons want _best_ doctor. Carapax sick. Carapax need best doctor."

"Well I'm sorry to hear… Carapax? Isn't feeling well, but the fact remains, you've come to the wrong place."

"We dig good tunnels," the blue Insecticon cut in. "We make tunnels for doctor."

"Yes, well if I ever need any tunnels—"

"Make webs," copper-brown added. "Softest webs of any Hive."

"How… lovely for you. I'll be in touch just as soon as I finalize my plans to redecorate this place in early silkworm."

"We fly!" the blue one said. "We fly doctor places. Flying faster than driving. Flying better."

"Watch your words, bug."

The two Insecticons exchanged glances. Finally, the blue one reached into its subspace and pulled out a small… pod. That was the only word Knock Out could think of to describe the object. It was transparent, shaped like the bud of a flower, and filled with a pale gold, glowing liquid. "Make honey," the blue Insecticon said, placing the pod reverently on the balcony. "Doctor drink."

"Honey?" Knock Out echoed. "Like… bees?"

"Bees, yes," the bug replied. "Honey made from energon."

"So basically… bug-vomit," Knock Out said, gazing at the pod with disgust. "Please remove it—and yourselves—from my balcony. Good night."

Knock Out yanked the blinds closed and took several loud, deliberate steps away from the door. During his time aboard the _Nemesis_ , he'd learned that where it came to these monsters, the worst thing you could do was show fear. It was the equivalent of entering a Sharkticon tank with an open wound. 

The two shadowed forms chittered to one another. After a moment, one of them raised its claw. Knock Out tensed, readying himself to fight or flee, but instead of breaking the door down the bug began dragging its claw-tip against the glass. A horrid scratching noise filled the apartment, and Knock Out realized the creature was… _writing_ something. On his balcony window. Fragger.

He shifted his grip on his prod, trying to decide whether this was worth making an issue of, but then the claw was withdrawn and the two bugs took off with a whir of wings. Knock Out released a vent he hadn't known he was holding. He edged forward and lifted the blind just far enough to peek outside. They'd left the crystals and the… honey. Of course. Ugh. Etched on the glass was a string of numbers: a call-sig.

Theirs? Knock Out supposed it had to be, which proved that they had a comm system, and that they weren't entirely illiterate. Both facts were surprising, if not exactly interesting. He dropped the blind and started toward his berthroom, then paused. A strange, pungent odor was wafting through the penthouse, coming from the direction of the balcony. 

He returned to the door and sniffed. It wasn't a strong smell, but having keen olfactory sensors was another gift of his unfortunate heritage. Knock Out considered it a mixed blessing at best, though this particular smell was oddly compelling. And familiar. He nudged the blinds apart, opened the door just wide enough to get his arm through, and grabbed the… honey. 

One sniff confirmed that it was the source of the unusual smell. He drew the pill bottle from his subspace, shook the contents into his palm, and sniffed the one he'd bitten in half. 

"Well, wouldn't you know?"


	2. Audience With the Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo! I have received the most amazing fanart for this! [Plugs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plugs/profile), a very generous and talented reader, was kind enough to draw the incredible illustration you see below, of Knock Out's first encounter with the Insecticon Queen. Plugs' other work can be found on [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/Plugs_lewds), so please take a moment to check it out and give him some well-deserved <3!

The Insecticons had a Queen.

That was news to Knock Out. He'd never thought much about the bugs one way or the other, but if pressed to form an opinion, he would have assumed they were governed by their hive mind, rather than by a leader. The Queen, however, was quite real. And quite huge. 

He—for this Queen was clearly a male—was leaning back in his throne, regarding Knock Out over the tips of his steepled claws. The Hive was utterly silent. Knock Out could hear the pounding of his own spark like a drumbeat in his audials, and the faint creak of shifting armor as one of his two enormous guards began to fidget. 

That guard was the blue-sheened one who'd given Knock Out the honey. He seemed nervous standing before his Queen, and Knock Out wondered if offering the honey had been some kind of no-no. That wasn't, of course, the only thing he'd started to wonder. To reach the Hive, his two escorts had carried him far across Cybertron's landscape to a steep mountain range which had turned out to be riddled with tunnels. 

There were no roads, so even if he was to make a break for it, he'd have to make his way through the maze-like tunnel system to reach the surface, and then scramble on foot through tumbled ruins. He'd be easy prey for any bugs who chose to pursue him, and… well. He'd heard rumors about their eating habits. Were those true? Did they occasionally supplement to their diet by dining on mechs?

The Queen finally spoke. His oddly-pitched voice rang through the whole chamber, making Knock Out's dentae vibrate. "Ripscare tells me you are willing to help us in exchange for our honey-honey."

Knock Out found a smile to paste on his features as he stepped forward. "Name's Knock Out, and I'm at your service," he said, bowing. That's what one did when meeting royalty, wasn't it? "And yes, honey's as good as money. How much of it do you have?"

The Queen snarled. It was terrifying. He was blessed with the same rows of jagged mandibles the… regular… Insecticons had, only his were longer, and bigger, and looked as if they could bite Knock Out in half without even trying. In addition, his shoulders were topped by a pair of pincer-like prongs that crackled with blue electricity.

"Our honey is for Insecticons-Insecticons," he said. "What do you want with it-it?"

Was that a verbal tic that he repeated the last word of every sentence, or was it a Queen thing? Didn't matter. Knock Out pulled himself to his full height—which wasn't impressive at the best of times, but especially not when surrounded by these giants—and did his best to feign confidence as he replied.

"It turns out your honey has medicinal properties," he said. "It just happens to be the cure for a certain, ah… condition, that I suffer from."

Knock Out had run a quick chemical analysis of the honey, which had confirmed what his olfactories had already told him. The 'honey' was ninety-five percent energon, with the remainder comprised of a variety of substances classified under the general heading of 'contaminants.' One of those contaminants just happened to be the main active ingredient in Pharma's illegal pills. It seemed nothing short of a miracle, and might just save his career—if he could avoid getting eaten.

"Doctor is ill-ill?"

"Well… not _ill_ , exactly," Knock Out admitted. "It's a condition that I happen to be susceptible to, and—"

"Ssseeker." 

This was from one of the two Insecticons who stood, sentry-like, on either side of the Queen's throne. These were smaller in stature than the Drones, but sturdily built. One had long wings and antennae protruding from his forehelm, and looked like he might transform into a locust-like bug. The other, the one who had spoken, looked more like a scarab. He scuttled forward, his mandibles quivering as if he was scenting something. 

"Yesss, Ssseeker," he repeated. "Not _look_ like Ssseeker, but sssmells like one." He glanced back over his shoulder at the Queen, whose terrifying visage had taken on a thoughtful expression. 

"Doctor is in heat-heat?"

Knock Out opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said, "I think that's a rather personal question." It was as good as a confession, and he knew it. Then again, it wasn't as if Insecticons, of all creatures, were in any position to judge _him_. 

The Queen considered this. Finally he rose, moving with obvious difficulty. Knock Out quickly saw why. Though he had powerful arms and shoulders, the Queen's hips and waist were waspishly slim, making it easy to tell that his lower belly armor was distended. Was he… carrying? Did bugs do that? Knock Out had no idea. Insecticon reproduction wasn't something he'd ever concerned himself with, preferring to let the resident Hive aboard the _Nemesis_ figure out such matters for themselves. The Queen raised the claw that he wasn't using for balance, and motioned to his two sentries.

"Bulls: attend me-me."

The two… Bulls… scuttled to him, taking an arm each, and supported him from either side as he descended the steps of his throne. 

"Ripscare too-too," the Queen added, with a nod toward the cobalt-steel Drone who guarded Knock Out, the one who had given him the honey. "Bring Seeker Doctor. We will let Carapax decide-decide."

That name again: Carapax, the one who was allegedly sick. This should be interesting, Knock Out thought as his blue-tinged guard, Ripscare, wrapped a massive claw around his arm and ushered him down a passageway. The Queen preceded them, lumbering awkwardly between his two supporters. It was slow going, giving Knock Out plenty of time to contemplate his own stupidity.

How far out of his mind must he be to even consider this? Sure, he'd patched a few Insecticon hides after various battles, but that didn't make him a bug-doctor. Slag, he didn't even know how the creatures reproduced. What if he couldn't help this… Carapax? What would they do to him? He'd be lucky if being exposed as a Seeker was the worst thing that happened. The prospect of becoming bug-lunch was starting to seem ever more likely.

As they trudged along the corridor, he began to notice sounds… no, _music,_ drifting from somewhere ahead. It was soft, like a lullaby, and had a strangely calming effect on him. He felt almost _serene,_ which made no sense given the circumstances, yet the feeling welled from some deep place within his spark. When they emerged into a large chamber, he realized where the music was coming from. 

The chamber was filled with pods. Their shape was not unlike that of the honey container, though they were much larger. Mech-sized, or even bigger. Their sides were gently pulsing in the same rhythm as the music, which was coming from a tall, silvery mech. This bug was different from any of the others Knock Out had seen so far. 

She…? He…? was taller than the others, with a slender, silver frame, an elongated abdomen and massive claws. The creature reminded Knock Out of a praying mantis, an impression that was reinforced by their triangular helm and five golden optics. These held a faraway expression as the creature slowly rubbed their fore-claws together. This, Knock Out realized, was the source of the music.

"Carapax-pax," the Queen chirred, his tone noticeably softer. "We have brought you a doctor-doctor."

Carapax's golden stare turned toward Knock Out. "You are doctor?"

"Yes, I…" Knock Out took a step forward, then paused, staring at the enormous claws. He'd heard tales of mantid entities from other parts of the galaxy, and of what _their_ eating habits were like. None of this was especially reassuring. 

The creature's helm cocked to one side. "Carapax will not eat you." There was a distinct note of amusement in the voice, and Knock Out felt a wave of assurance wash over him. _I recognize this_ , he thought. He'd experienced it before, in the presence of Soundwave. Not that Soundwave had ever tried to reassure him per se, but the effect was similar. It was as if the creature was superimposing an emotion over top of his own. 

"You're not a regular bug, are you?"

"I do not understand the question."

"Are you another… Queen, or something?"

This time there was melodic chuckle. "Carapax not Queen," the creature replied. "Shrapnel is Queen; Carapax is Host for this Hive."

All right then. Whatever that meant. "So," Knock Out said, stepping closer but staying beyond range of those claws, "what can the doctor do for you, Carapax?"

Carapax didn't reply in words. Instead, they turned and lifted a set of dorsal shells which appeared to act as wing-protectors. Knock Out had seen similar ones on the Drones, though Carapax's were longer and more elegantly tapered. Everything about Carapax was elegant, which again reminded Knock Out of Soundwave. Beneath the shells were a set of transparent wings, which Carapax hesitantly spread. Knock Out immediately saw the problem.

The wings were dull gray, lacking the healthy iridescence he'd seen in the Drones' wings. One had broken off, and was just a stump. The remaining three looked brittle, with cracks running through the delicate membranes, and looked as if they, too, might drop off at any moment.

"The problem is that you can't fly?" he asked.

Carapax sighed, making the wings rattle like dry leaves. "If it was only _just_ that," the melodic voice replied. A wave of intense sorrow rolled from the creature as they twisted their slim body back toward him. "Carapax cannot carry," they said, resting one of those wicked claws on their abdomen. "Has lost two clutches of eggs. Hive cannot survive like this."

 _Oh._ So being the Host meant… hosting. Of course it did. "So what about, ah… Shrapnel?" Knock Out asked, glancing at the Queen's distended belly. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added, "Isn't he, um… carrying?"

A loud chuckle came from behind. "Shrapnel can hear-hear," the Queen replied, stepping closer. "And no, Shrapnel makes eggs-eggs. Bulls fertilize," he nodded to his two sentries, "and Carapax carries-carries."

"I see." This was, to say the least, well outside Knock Out's field of expertise. Which meant that he'd better cut his losses and get the scrap out of here while he had all his limbs attached. "Let me just examine you," he said, bringing his medical kit out of subspace. 

"Doctor can help?" Carapax asked hopefully. "Ripscare thinks you are _best_ doctor."

"Why yes; the very best that honey can buy," Knock Out said, making a show of arranging his tools. "I'll need to scan you and take some samples for analysis back at my laboratory."

'Back at the laboratory' being the operative phrase, of course. Knock Out ran every scan he could think of and took specimens, which he bottled up into neatly-labeled jars. Carapax, despite being twice his size, was meek and cooperative, allowing him to poke and prod as he saw fit. This was a far cry from the entitled, demanding clients he generally saw in his cosmetic practice. 

The creature's trust was oddly refreshing, though at the same time, it made him uneasy. A trust like this, if broken, could turn into something very dangerous, very fast. The fact that Shrapnel kept looming over him also wasn't reassuring. As Knock Out wrapped up his examination and began putting away his tools, though, the monstrous Queen cleared his vocalizer. Sounding almost shy, he asked, "Doctor-doctor? Can you examine my eggs-eggs?"

"Well, um…" Knock out glanced at the bulging undercarriage, which Shrapnel was guarding with a protective claw. "Why?"

He guessed that was probably a bad question, but Shrapnel, rather than seeming offended, glanced to one side, his mandibles flicking back and forth. Preposterous as the notion seemed, he _did_ seem shy. Drawing his hand away from his abdomen, he slid his belly-armor to one side, revealing a swollen egg-sac.

"How ripe-ripe?"

Ripe? Knock Out stared at the distended belly. He could see rounded shapes pressing through the protoform. He was also intensely aware of Shrapnel's massive, clawed hand hovering near the sac, ready to violently dissect anyone who might damage his eggs.

"Easy big guy," he murmured, reaching to cup the egg-sac in his palms. It was surprisingly heavy. It was also surprisingly pleasant to touch. The protoform was warm in his hands and had a silky texture. Knock Out gave it a squeeze, hoping he looked as if he knew what he was doing. He couldn't tell how many eggs were in there. They felt glued together in a solid mass.

"They seem very, um, ripe, indeed," he said.

"How long do I have-have?" Shrapnel asked. His frame had remained tense, and Knock Out began to notice a scent leaking from him. It was subtle, but it was definitely… sexual. Knock Out's gaze slid, unbidden, to Shrapnel's panel. The Queen's codpiece was bulging forward, as if the eggs behind it were pushing it outward, and it had opened ever so slightly. 

As he stared, unable to drag his gaze from it, the tip of Shrapnel's spike peeked out. It was bevel-shaped, with an unusual set of rings nested at the base of the head. A few drops of amber fluid, which Knock Out guessed to be the source of the scent, were leaking from the slit. 

Knock Out's mouth went dry. His heat was kicking in with all the subtlety of an orchestra of kettle-drums. Being kicked. _Okay Knock_ , he told himself. _You can let go now. You can take a step back. You can—_

Shrapnel's hand suddenly swept in front of his panel, blocking his view. "Forgive me-me," the Queen rasped. Did his voice sound odd? Breathless? There was an audible 'click' as the codpiece snapped shut. "My sac is sensitive to touch-touch. I did not mean…" Shrapnel paused, as if lost for words. "How long-long?" he asked again.

"How… long?" Knock Out was trying hard not to stare at the bulging panel, or speculate about what the rest of that unusual spike might look like. Did this _actually_ turn him on? Obviously not. He wasn't into bugs. He was just in heat and not thinking clearly. He'd taken the second half of that pill earlier, and it had calmed his symptoms well enough, but— 

"Until I must mate-mate," Shrapnel clarified, a statement which conjured any number of unhelpful mental images. Shrapnel shifted as if he was uncomfortable, which he probably was. With the egg-sac putting that much pressure on his array, he was probably just _aching_ to…

Knock Out fumbled in his subspace. He grabbed the pill bottle, tore it open and gulped down its remaining contents. That was it for his supply of Halcynol, so he'd better hope the honey actually did the trick.

"Within an orn is my guess," he said, wetting his lips. It _was_ just a guess. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my laboratory."


	3. Many-Splendored Thing

Knock Out leaned back in his chair, glaring at the readings on his laboratory's work-screen. He'd spent most of the afternoon studying he samples he'd collected from Carapax. He'd analyzed them five different ways, using various tests and diagnostic criteria, but the results made absolutely no sense. Then again, they wouldn't. Bug gynecology wasn't exactly his field of expertise, yet the bugs clearly expected _some_ sign of progress. 

Three day-cycles had passed since his visit to the Hive. His heat was in full swing, though the honey, which was brought to him each morning by the Drone named Ripscare, was controlling it beautifully. He could function at work. He could think clearly enough to carry on a reasonable conversation, and yesterday, he'd even managed a surgery. Yet his heat would continue for at least another orn, and he couldn't hold the bugs off forever. 

That morning, when Ripscare had delivered Knock Out's honey, he'd asked how much longer the tests were going to take. He'd been ever so polite, but Knock Out had sensed the underlying threat. If he took too long, or failed to uphold his side of the bargain, they'd cut off his supply. He'd be outed as a Seeker and lose his career—and that was quite apart from the very real danger of being ripped to shreds. Knock Out had told Ripscare he was working on it. That hadn't exactly been true, but it was now. He was playing for time, and honey—and getting nowhere. 

With a sigh, he opened a fresh search window and logged into Cybertron's main medical database. When he entered the term 'Insecticon,' the list of results was even shorter than he'd expected. Five articles total, all authored by a single name: Rangemaster. 

"Okay Range, let's see what you've got for me." Knock Out opened the first article, only to discover that it was ethnographic rather than medical:

_Every Hive I've seen maintains a stable of five or six Bulls, with other Bulls cycling through as they travel from Hive to Hive. Occasionally, when the Queen is in heat, she or he will undertake a mating flight to attract new Bulls. Some of these Bulls will stay, especially if the Queen proves fertile, but Bulls, in general, tend to wander. This is the Insecticons' way of maintaining genetic diversity…_

"Bor-ring." 

Knock Out paged back to Rangemaster's bio. Sure enough, the guy was a biologist rather than a medic. He was probably included in the database merely because he was the only person who had studied the bugs. Knock Out was about to close the screen when the title of another article caught his attention:

_Oviposition._

His hand rose, unbidden, and he clicked on it. He was greeted by a hand-drawn image of… "Whoa." The organ in the picture matched the brief glimpse he'd caught of Shrapnel's spikehead. The carefully-rendered diagram showed the same bevel-shaped tip, and the same nested rings at the base of the head. The shaft grew thicker toward the base, and… oh. There was a second diagram attached to the first. One which showed the rings expanded, and a round bulge near the tip of the spike. Was that a knot, like some other Beastformers had? Knock Out glanced at the text.

 _During ovipositional mating,_ it read, _the Bulls first prepare the Host by providing transfluid. This contains hormonal enzymes which temporarily relax the Host's ceiling node, allowing the Queen to insert the tip of his or her ovipositor. The dilation-rings in the ovipositor's tip then expand, stretching the walls of the inner channel to ease the passage of ripe eggs into the gestational tank—_

Knock Out tore his optics from the screen and sprang from his chair, spark pounding. He was calm. He was. His temperature had _not_ spiked at that description, nor had his valve begun to throb, and he certainly wasn't _imagining_ … no. It was just that the honey was wearing off. With a shaking hand, he drew his current pod from subspace and gulped deeply. 

The taste was surprisingly pleasant, for bug vomit, and when the golden liquid caught the light, it reminded him of the amber fluid he'd seen welling from the tip of Shrapnel's… _ovipositor_. The tip of which, he now knew, was slim for a reason. It was designed to slide into the tight ceiling node at the top of a mate's valve, prise it open with those rings, and then pump the gestational tank full of— 

_Stop it, Knock._

There was nothing sexy about this. At all. Getting stuffed full of bug-eggs might be hot for _bugs_ , but Knock Out was not a bug. He was just in heat, and not thinking clearly.The honey was helping, though it didn't work quite as well as Pharma's pills. The pills masked his heat symptoms entirely, while the honey, which had a lower concentration of the active ingredient, was more subtle. Still, he could feel its calming effect on him. When he felt steady again, he eased back into his chair and entered another search term:

_Ripe._

That was the word Shrapnel had used in reference to his eggs, so it had to be more than a figure of speech. Sure enough, he found an entry on the subject:

 _A ripe egg has a slippery, jelly-like outer coating,_ Rangemaster's text explained. _This facilitates its movement through the ovipositor as the Queen expels it during mating. It also eases the birthing process for the Host, once the eggs have reached full development within his or her the gestational tank. Ripeness can be determined through manual examination of the egg-sac, as prior to ripening, the eggs tend to stick to one another._

Knock Out stared at the passage. "Repugnant," he said aloud. And it really was. The very thought of those smooth, slippery eggs sliding over and around each other inside a heavy, silken egg-sac… it was disgusting. He could hardly stand thinking about it. But how slippery had Shrapnel's eggs felt? He thought back, recalling their weight in his palms, and… oh, frag. 

"That's enough of that," he decided, and reached to close the file. Just then, the door of his lab burst open and First Aid bustled in, arms loaded with a stack of client files. 

"Hey, boss! Thought you'd gone for the day."

"And I thought I told you not to call me that," Knock Out replied, pleased that he'd managed not to fall out of his chair. "But since you're here, what can I do for you?"

"Oh, I just—" First Aid froze, staring at the screen. "Oh wow, you're reading Rangemaster's stuff!"

Knock Out, who had been reaching to close the window, hesitated. "Just catching up on some journals," he said. "Why? Is he… famous or something?" He didn't see how anyone could get famous by studying bugs, but then again, one never knew. 

"I don't know about _famous_ ," First Aid replied. "I did a report on him for one of my classes. His work's fascinating, though I'd say he took things to extremes. How much have you read?"

"Um… enough?" 

"Oh." First Aid's optics glowed brighter behind his visor. "So you know, then."

Knock Out frowned. "Know what?"

"Well…" First Aid bounced—literally bounced—onto the edge of Knock-Out's computer console, where he sat swinging his pedes like an excited sparkling. "It's not like he actually _says_ it, but if you know the rumors about him, and do a bit of reading between the lines…"

"Yeees?" Knock Out prompted.

First Aid leaned toward him. "They say," he said, dropping his voice, "that he did more than just _study_ the bugs, if you know what I mean. They say he actually, um..."

Knock Out stared at him. "Actually um what?"

"Uh. They say he fell in love with a Queen and became one of their… you know, mates?"

Knock Out recoiled. "Really? That's… um. Disturbing."

"Right? I mean… I guess you can't help who you fall in love with," First Aid said, darting a glance at Knock Out, which Knock Out duly pretended not to notice. "But wow. You know they don't even have a normal spike, right? They have a… thing… that pushes right into the gestational tank and—"

"An ovipositor. Yes."

"Yeah. I mean… ouch, right?"

"I… suppose?" Knock Out hadn't even considered whether it would be painful. Which just went to show what being in heat could do to a normal, sensible mech's logic circuits.

"But it's kind of strange," First Aid went on. "I mean, I don't know if other frametypes are even compatible with Insecticons. Well, maybe Seekers would be. Or Predacons. They share a lot of characteristics."

"Yes, quite," Knock Out said dryly.

"But Rangemaster's Praxian. I don't know if hybridization would even be possible, but the bugs obviously accepted him, and hey. To each their own, right?"

"Love is, indeed, a many-splendored thing," Knock Out replied.

First Aid gave him a hopeful look. "You think so?" 

"No." 

First Aid deflated.

Knock Out reached to close the document, and with it, he hoped, the subject. "So what brings you in here?" he asked, nodding to the pile of client files in First Aid's lap. "Anything we need to go over?"

"I…" First Aid was still staring at the damn screen. "Whose file is _that_?"

Knock Out shot a glance at it. Carapax's charts were still up; he'd forgotten to close them along with the other window. "Oh, it's nothing," he said, silently cursing himself. "Just a case-study a colleague sent for me to give a second opinion on."

"Wow, that's quite a case. It looks like… I don't even know what."

"It's an Insecticon," Knock Out said, figuring that mixing in a little truth would strengthen his lie. If nothing else, it gave him a handy excuse for having been caught reading about ovipositors.

"Uh… I don't think so, boss."

"I've told you not to call me…" Knock Out paused. "What do you mean?"

First Aid's pale features flushed, but he gamely continued. "The chemistry's off," he said, pointing at one of the charts. "Here, and here… oh, and there, too. Insecticons also have some unique markers in their CNA." He reached for the keypad. "Can I just…?"

Knock Out spread his hands. "Be my guest."

First Aid called up the Rangemaster files again and selected an article on Insecticon genetics. "There," he said. "If you take a look at the charts in here, compared to what your colleague sent, you'll see the differences."

Knock Out stared at the file. Now that First Aid had pointed it out, the differences _were_ obvious. He'd been so focused on… ovipositors… that he hadn't even thought to look in _this_ section of Rangemaster's work. Now he had an entirely new avenue to consider.

"You've studied this carefully," he noted, impressed in spite of himself.

First Aid blushed again. "Well to be honest, Insecticons are pretty interesting from a cosmetic point of view."

Knock Out raised a brow-ridge. "You've obviously never seen one."

"Not in person," First Aid admitted, "but their ability to regenerate is remarkable. If we could find a way to re-create that, we could help so many people. War veterans, for example. There are so many who rely on prosthetics now, or wear masks due to damaged faceplates, or… things like that. There are cases where you _could_ just build a new part, but it would be so difficult and expensive to make it compatible that most bots could never afford it. And there are cases where nothing can be done at all. We could change that. We could revolutionize Cybertronian medicine."

"And make a _lot_ of money," Knock Out mused. 

"I… suppose," First Aid replied, sounding as if he hadn't even thought about it from a business perspective. Come to think of it, he probably hadn't. He was all about helping people. It was… cute. In a slightly annoying way. Knock Out trusted he'd grow out of it.

"Of course, we would need to secure funding," Knock Out went on, "and wade through an ocean of red tape. You can't just run a study these days. The so-called Board of Ethics needs to approve it."

"Well yes, of course," First Aid said, in the tone of someone who'd never met Shockwave. 

"After that, there'd be vorns' worth of research and development, not mention the minor matter of getting the bugs' cooperation in the first place."

"But if we _could_ do all that," First Aid persisted, "it might—"

"Turn out to be an unworkable pipe-dream?"

"Well…" First Aid sagged. "I guess, but we won't know unless we try."

Knock Out sighed as an image of Breakdown, one optic missing, floated before his mind's eye. _What's gone is gone_ , he told himself, brushing the image aside. Replacing Breakdown's optic wouldn't have saved his life, and in any case, Insecticons were hardly compatible with non-Beastformers.

"You go ahead and try," Knock Out said, rising. "I've got real work to do."


	4. Scent of (a) Bug

When Knock Out got home, he poured himself a shot of hi-grade and ordered takeout. His galley contained little more than honey and hi-grade, neither of which offered a balanced nutritional profile. He took his drink to his home office, opened the Rangemaster files, and then proceeded to just sit there, staring at Rangemaster's head-shot.

The Praxian biologist resembled an older, slightly heavier version of Smokescreen. He exuded an air of calm refinement, appearing every bit the serious and dignified academic. How in Unicron's name had this mech ended up… bugged? Knock Out imagined the edges of the picture expanding to show Rangemaster seated at the foot of a throne, an enormous bug-Queen stroking his helm as if he was a favored pet. The image expanded further, revealing that Rangemaster's belly-armor was distended, burgeoning with a clutch of…

"Ugh." 

Definitely time to get to work. Knock Out began by comparing Carapax's test results to Rangemaster's biological profiles of Insecticons. First Aid had been right. Carapax had many traits in common with Insecticons, but there was another genetic influence mixed in, one that Knock Out couldn't identify. 

He scoured the medical database, calling up what information he could on Arachnicons, Predacons, Scorpicons, and any other related frametype he could think of. There wasn't much. Few scientists were brave enough—or stupid enough—to study such monsters. All Knock Out was able to determine with any certainty was that Carapax was None Of The Above. 

_So what are you?_

Knock Out pictured the slim, silvery frame with its triangular helm and enormous foreclaws. Carapax _looked_ like an insect. A mantid, to be exact. Which made them… a bug. Didn't it? "When is a bug _not_ a bug?" It sounded like a riddle. 

A quiet knock interrupted his thoughts. Knock Out rose and went to the door, but there was no one in the hall. When the knock was repeated, he realized it was coming from his balcony—and that the figure waiting out there was most definitely not the delivery-mech from Solder's Grill. It was the steel-blue Drone; the one named Ripscare.

"I told you I'm working on it," he snapped, yanking the door open. "I'm going as fast as I can."

"Not that," the bug replied. He was hunched away from the light, and his posture was stiff as if he was in discomfort. 

"Okay? Well? I'm kind of busy, so…" Knock Out trailed off as the bug scuffled forward and tilted his helm to one side, offering a view of his mandibles. 

"Ripscare ouch. Need doctor."

"I… can see that." Knock Out said, wincing in spite of himself. One of Ripscare's mandibles was blackened, misshapen and hanging at what looked like an unnatural angle. "What happened?"

Ripscare rocked from side to side, then glanced away. It was almost… a shrug. A bug-shrug. "Ripscare is not thief," the bug said. "Not steal. Just hungry."

"This looks like an acid-burn," Knock Out said, leaning closer to get a better look at the injury. It was still smoking. "Did someone shoot at you?"

"Energon chips were in garbage," Ripscare clarified. "Ripscare not monster. Not steal, or harm anyone."

"All right, I believe you," Knock Out said, digging in his subspace for a cannister of neutralizing foam. Acid-pellets were a nasty holdover from the war, and enough mechs still carried them that Knock Out kept the antidote in his kit. He sprayed it over the stump, and listened for the soft 'hiss' of the acid being neutralized. He could tell when the burning had stopped, because Ripscare sighed and sagged against him.

"Not as ouch anymore," Ripscare said. "Doctor best."

And then—to Knock Out's utter shock—he found himself swept into lanky, claw-tipped arms. He yelped, trying to twist away, and Ripscare instantly let go.

"Ripscare sorry," the bug said. "Didn't mean to scare. Ripscare thank doctor."

"Don't thank me yet," Knock Out replied. "I don't know if we can save the mandible, but I'll splint it. Come in where it's light."

As he stepped through the doorway, it occurred to him that he'd just invited an Insecticon into his penthouse. It was, however, a bit late to change his mind. Ripscare was scrunching down and tucking his massive wing-casings tight to his sides in order to fit through the door. He paused when his pede touched the carpet. 

"Strange ground," he remarked, poking at it curiously. "Soft."

"Soft and expensive. _Do_ try not to bleed on it."

"Oh. Sorry." Ripscare wrapped a clawed hand around his injury as he followed Knock Out to the galley. To Knock Out's relief, he managed to avoid knocking over anything priceless.

"I've been reading up on you," Knock Out remarked, keeping a wary optic on him as he began setting up his medical supplies on the counter. Since he'd evidently parted company with his senses and invited a bug into his home, the least he could do was ask it a few questions. Maybe he'd learn something. 

"Doctor reading about Ripscare?" the bug asked. He sounded confused.

"Not you specifically," Knock Out said. He hopped up on the counter to get closer to Ripscare's face, and began cleaning the damaged area. "I've been reading about how you bugs reproduce."

"How make sparklings?" Ripscare brightened noticeably. "Ripscare like sparklings. Like play with them."

Now _there_ was a mental image Knock Out could have done without. What would Insecticon sparklings look like? Little maggots? Try as he might, it was impossible for Knock Out to picture the monstrous creature before him… playing. With anything. 

"I didn't realize Drones could have sparklings," he said, trying to steer the conversation back to something more… medical.

"Drones cannot," the bug replied. "But when sparklings come, whole Hive takes care. We play, feed, teach to fight, tell stories…" he trailed off. "Ripscare miss sparklings. Hope Doctor can help Carapax make new ones."

"I hope so too," Knock Out said as he wound metallic gauze around Ripscare's mandible. "Speaking of Carapax—" The door-buzzer interrupted him. "Hold that thought."

Knock Out slid off the counter and went to answer. "Took you long enough," he said, wedging himself into the door-frame in an attempt to block the delivery-mech's sightline into his apartment. No dice. 

The mech who stood in the hall, arms laden with food cartons, was easily four heads taller than Knock Out, and twice as broad. Far from the callow youth Knock Out would have expected, he appeared to be a seasoned war-veteran. The outline of Autobot insignia still showed clearly on one of his massive arms, and half his face was concealed by a thick plate which obviously covered some old injury. He took one look past Knock Out's shoulder, and bristled.

"You!" he snarled, shoving the door wide. "First you're rooting through my garbage and now this?" He slammed Knock Out against the wall with one arm as he whipped a gun from his subspace. "Hold still, kid, this won't take a moment." He fired. 

"Not monster, no shoot!" Ripscare cried as he ducked behind the counter. The shot skimmed narrowly above his wing-casings and struck the wall behind him. There was a loud 'hiss,' and a blackened, smoking hole appeared in Knock Out's platinum-veined marble backsplash.

"Excuse me?" Knock Out lunged. He ducked under the mech's gun-arm and sank his claws into a sensitive cable in the mech's elbow. This was where having a working knowledge of anatomy came in handy. The delivery-mech recoiled with a bark of pain, and the gun hit the floor. "That's _Doctor_ Kid to you."

Knock Out had just enough time to kick the weapon beyond reach before he found himself grabbed by the throat. "You with the Decpticons?" the mech snarled, slamming him against the wall. "Or just some kinda bug-lover?"

"War's over, bozo," Knock Out croaked, fighting to get the words past the massive paw that was crushing his vocalizer. He kicked, trying to break the mech's grip, but it was no use. The larger mech was a solid wall of living titanium. Knock Out managed to get an arm free and activated one of his saws. "Let go or… ungh! I'll carve you into Autobot sushi." 

A wild, familiar hunting-cry echoed through the apartment, loud enough to rattle the windows. A cobalt-steel blur was arcing down on them, and Knock Out's assailant was suddenly airborne, dangling helplessly from a pair of powerful clawed hands.

"Leave doctor alone!" Ripscare snarled. His wings flared, making him look even bigger and more menacing than he already was, and…

 _Damn. He's beautiful,_ Knock Out thought as his knees gave way. It was a bizarre thought to have about an Insecticon, but then again, being strangled had probably cut off the energon flow to his central processor. Knock Out was dimly aware of the delivery-mech vaulting past him as he charged for the open doorway. Then an enormous pair of claws were lifting him, and he was being… held.

"Doctor all right?"

The bug was petting him. Actually petting. And it felt amazing. "I'll live," Knock Out said, extracting himself more slowly than he really should have. "I'm not so sure about my apartment."

His floor was littered with food cartons. Some of them had burst, spilling their contents onto his carpet, and there was a gigantic, smoking hole in the wall of his galley. He hobbled to the door and and glanced into the hallway. There was no sign of the delivery-mech. "I guess that restaurant's off my list of take-out places," he said, picking up the cartons. "You didn't… um, hurt him, did you?"

"Bad mech try to hurt doctor. Ripscare scared him away. No need to hurt."

"Good mech." Knock Out kicked the door shut and carried the food to the galley. Ripscare followed, looking uncertain. Knock Out glanced him over for signs of damage, but saw none apart from the injured mandible. "You said you were hungry, right?"

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

"Knock Out ever make sparklings?" Ripscare asked, some time later. After Knock Out had finished splinting Ripscare's mandible, they had taken the food out onto the balcony, and now sat with a growing stack of empty food cartons between them.

"Um… no?" Knock Out replied. He was struggling to pick up the last of his energon dumplings using chopsticks. Giving up, he speared it with a claw. Not as civilized, but then again, his dining companion ate with a proboscis. Civilization was relative. "Do I _look_ like the nurturing type?" he asked, licking sauce from his claw.

Ripscare tilted his helm, studying Knock Out with startling seriousness. "Doctor not like sparklings?"

"It's Knock Out," Knock Out said. "Not doctor."

"Not… doctor?" The bug glanced toward Knock Out's billboard. "Sign say—"

"No, I _am_ a doctor. But since you saved me from the rampaging restaurateur, I think we can start calling each other by our names."

Ripscare inclined his helm, accepting the suggestion. "Knock Out not like sparklings?"

"I like them fine," Knock Out said, his faceplate heating. "It's just… never been a possibility. Have you tried the dessert? Some carpet-fibers got into it, but—"

"Not sterile," Ripscare said, bending to sniff him. "No mate?"

"Sterile is an awfully big word for someone who doesn't use full sentences," Knock Out grumbled.

"Not wish to answer," the bug observed. 

"No, not especially."

They fell silent. Knock Out poured a fresh shot of hi-grade. Was it his fifth? His sixth? He'd lost count, though his intake was clearly high enough to make this situation seem… well, 'normal' might be too strong a word, but it did feel surprisingly natural. Ripscare, for all his probing questions, was pleasant company. His presence was unexpectedly comforting. Still, Knock Out jumped when a massive claw settled between his shoulders. 

"Knock Out sad."

"Sad?" Knock Out frowned. "No, I'm fine, I'm…" he trailed off. "What makes you think I'm sad?"

"Smell."

"I… _smell_ sad?" Well, that actually did make a certain amount of sense. After all, Knock Out also came from a heritage that valued scent. Seekers made all kinds of determinations about one another based on smell. That was hard-coded into Knock Out as firmly as his heat-cycle. "I'm fine," he repeated.

The claw remained on his back. "Knock Out is good doctor. Helped Ripscare. Will help Carapax."

"I hope so." Knock Out darted a glance at the bandaged mandible. The splint was holding it in place, but privately, he pegged the odds of saving the appendage at about fifty-fifty. "But I don't understand Carapax's test results," he admitted. "They're… unusual."

"Carapax different from other Insecticons," Ripscare agreed. "Smell different."

"Different in what way?"

Ripscare pondered the question. "Can't describe. Smell different like doc… like Knock Out smell different. Knock Out is not Insecticon, so not smell like one. Carapax smell like Insecticon, but not like other Insecticons."

Well _that_ was clear as mud. "Ripscare," Knock Out said, edging closer. "Can I… smell you?"

It was a ridiculous thing to ask, or would have been with anyone else, but Ripscare took it in stride. He slung a lanky arm around Knock Out's shoulders and drew him against his warm side. "How Ripscare smell?"

Knock Out inhaled. "Hmm." Ripscare's scent was earthy, metallic, and… nice. Not in a made-up way, like the waxes and polishes Knock Out wore to mask his own scent, but a natural way. It reminded Knock Out of the desert highways that had become his refuge while on Earth. "I don't remember what Carapax smells like," he admitted, "so I have nothing to compare it to."

A low laugh vibrated against his side. It was oddly soothing, and became even more so when Ripscare began to softly chirr. Was it a sound of contentment? It seemed to be, or at least, Knock Out chose to interpret it that way. He let himself relax. He could always rationalize this in the morning as something he'd done while Under The Influence. Drinking came in handy that way.

"Knock Out less sad?" Ripscare asked, after a while.

"Knock Out wasn't sad," Knock Out replied.

"Still smell sad."

 _Oh._ There wasn't much room for pretense with the bugs, was there? "I should get back to work," he said, extracting himself from the half-hug. The bug-hug, his addled processor put in. He started to giggle, and was shocked to find himself pulled into a true hug. The bugs certainly had their own ideas about personal boundaries—ideas that were entirely the opposite of Knock Out's—yet he couldn't bring himself to pull away. It felt so nice.

"Knock Out is tired," Ripscare rumbled. "Should sleep." 

Knock Out's cheek was pressed against the plating that covered Ripscare's spark, and he could feel it pulse in time with the slow glide of massive claws against his back.

_Oh, slag. I want to kiss him._

A bug. Whose mouth resembled a bear-trap more than it did anything kissable. Yet his spark ached for the touch of another, and his arms were already sliding up around the thick curve of Ripscare's neck, where his wing-covers rose in a sleek, segmented arch. He really was beautiful. If you… liked bugs. 

_Do I like bugs?_ Knock Out asked himself. Or was he just drunk, horny, and maybe a tad lonely? "You're right," he said, stepping back. "I _should_ get some rest. Why don't you finish the leftovers? I'll… uh, see you around."

Ripscare had stilled. He was watching Knock Out, his expression unreadable behind his faceplate's scarlet visor. Then he leaned forward and allowed his undamaged mandible to trail lightly against Knock Out's shoulder. "Ripscare understand," the bug said. "Thank doctor for sharing food. It will help."

He sprang from the balcony and was gone in a blur of wings. Knock Out stared after him for a long while, his helm reeling and his spark pounding. What had just happened? His hand rose to his shoulder, tracing the path Ripscare's mandible had taken. It had felt almost like a kiss. Which was crazy. He _was_ drunk. Definitely drunk. 

He picked his way through the ruin of his penthouse and collapsed on his berth. The wall compartment at the head of his berth was stocked with all the necessities. Lube: check. A selection of dildos, valve stimulators, and other toys: check. Porn: hardly a necessity in his current state, but also check. The item that he brought out, however, was none of those. It was his buffer. 

He curled around it, burrowing his face into pink fluff that had long ago stopped smelling like Breakdown. All he smelled now was bug. That should have been unpleasant. It wasn't. His body felt the imprint of Ripscare's arm curled around his shoulders, the gentle vibration of a spark against his cheek, the warmth of another frame next to his.

How long was it since he'd been just… held? The sad part was, he knew exactly how long. To the day. To the exact moment. It had been on that very last night, the last night of Breakdown's life. They had been on the outs for a while, even before Breakdown's confession about Airachnid, but they were starting to patch things up. 

Knock Out had allowed Breakdown into his berth for the first time in months. After, they'd lain in the dark and whispered of escape. Everything that had gone wrong between them had happened during their time aboard the _Nemesis_. That was when they'd started fighting. That was when Breakdown had been captured and mutilated by Earth vermin. That was when… Airachnid… had happened. 

It was time, they'd decided. Time to go. They would sneak off the ship and disappear. Make a new life somewhere else, somewhere they'd never be found. Maybe finally start a family, if they could. They'd fallen asleep in each other's arms, at peace for the first time in far too long, and at dawn, they'd parted with a kiss. Their last kiss. 

"Avoid love at all costs, young Padawan," Knock Out muttered into the pink fuzz. He imagined he was talking to First Aid, though really, he was talking to his own younger self. "Love is a many-splendored chunk of red hot, steaming slag."

As he drifted off, the last thing he smelled was bug.


	5. Diagnosis

Knock Out woke with a start. His spark was pounding and when he moved, he found that his thighs were glued to his sheets in a sticky mess. 

"Ugh." He burrowed his helm beneath one of his pillows and found his faceplate pressed against the buffer. Had he really fallen asleep with it? And he'd been dreaming, too. The images rose before his mind's eye, swirling like dust-devils. Had it been about Breakdown? His heat-dreams usually were, but this time it had been… 

_Oh._

It had been _Soundwave_. Of all mechs. What the frag? Soundwave had been on top of him, pinning him down, his tentacles twining everywhere while his emotional imprinting made Knock Out half believe that this was what he wanted. And there'd been a strange scent pouring from him. A scent that was familiar, though as Knock Out stared up into the featureless, reflective mask, he found that couldn't quite place it.

And what the frag? He'd _never_ dreamed about Soundwave. Not in _that_ way, at least. Soundwave was beautiful, but his beauty was that of a circling hawk, as seen from a mouse's perspective. Knock Out was certainly no mouse, of course, and Soundwave had never laid a finger—or tentacle—on him in real life. Still, Knock Out had always had a gut-level awareness of being in the presence of his natural predator when Soundwave was around. Evidently, his instinct for self-preservation was one of the few things capable of overriding his sex drive. So why, in the name of Primus and all things holy, was he dreaming about the fragger now?

His comm buzzed. He checked his chrono before answering, and groaned. "Sorry Firs' Aid," he muttered. "I guess I musta…" He trailed off, realizing that call-sig wasn't from his office. " _Pharma_? What do _you_ want?"

"My, my," a familiar voice purred. "From the sound of things, I'm guessing you haven't taken your doctor's advice."

"You're not my doctor," Knock Out growled. "Why are you calling?"

"I have an update about the supply of Halcynol, though you might want to sit down. I'm afraid it isn't good news."

Knock Out sat up, peeled the sticky sheets from his legs, and wadded them in a ball. He lobbed them in the general direction of the laundry-chute, but missed. Frag. His helm was pounding. "Just tell me."

Pharma did, and the news was, indeed, not good. The 'supply issues' he'd mentioned during their last meeting were more serious, it seemed, than previously thought. The Galactic Contraband Enforcement Arm had seized control of the moon where the active ingredient was being mined, and another source would have to be located.

"So how long will that take?" Knock Out asked.

"It could happen tomorrow, or it could happen a vorn from now. No one knows."

"So basically, I'm fragged," Knock Out said, and belatedly realized that had been a bad choice of words. The lower half of his frame began to throb. He dug in his subspace for his honey-pod, but came up empty. 

"Not to point out the obvious, but there is a simple solution," Pharma said. "Have you considered a relationship?"

"Speaking as someone who's actually had one, no," Knock Out replied. He slid off the berth, painfully aware of the mattress brushing against his sensitized nether regions. "Now if that's everything—"

"It doesn't have to be 'true love,'" Pharma said with a chuckle. "Why not a 'friends with benefits' situation? Heck, it doesn't even have to be with _me._ "

"Well _that's_ a relief," Knock Out replied sarcastically as he stumbled out into his living area. His balcony was empty. No honey-pod in sight. He clenched his fists, fighting panic. Was Ripscare angry with him? He hadn't seemed angry, but—

"That that diminutive assistant of yours, for example," Pharma went on. "He's pretty cute—"

Knock Out spun from the door. "First Aid?" he snarled. "You stay away from him!"

"Well well," Pharma purred. "Perhaps I'm wrong, then. Maybe you _have_ found true love, and just don't know it yet. You do seem quite… _passionate_ about the little fellow."

"Listen to me, Pharma," Knock Out growled. The mention of First Aid's name had doused his heat-symptoms like a bucket of ice-water. "If you lay so much as one slimy digit on him, I'll saw it off and feed it to you. Understood?"

"You're not the _only_ one with saws," Pharma replied mildly. "But joking aside, there is one solution you don't seem to have considered."

Knock Out stalked to his washracks, where one glance in his vanity mirror told him that he looked about as good as he felt. "Oh really?" he asked. "And what might that be?" 

Pharma replied in a sing-song voice. "Come out, come out, wherever you are!" 

Knock Out glared at his own reflection. "No."

Pharma sighed audibly. "Believe it or not, things _have_ changed. It's not the taboo it once was. It's possible to be a Seeker _and_ a medic. I'm a living example."

"A three-quarters Praxian example," Knock Out grated. "But hey," he added as he turned on the spray for his shower, making a little more noise than necessary. "If my idea of a successful career involved doing general practice in some godforsaken corner of Cybertron while slinging illegal pharmaceuticals to make ends meet, I'd get right on that."

There was a long silence on the line. "There's no need to be insulting," Pharma said, at last. "Do you wish for me to notify you if there's any change in the supply situation?"

"Yes, damn it! Yes! Now go away."

Knock Out ended the call and got in the shower. He shuttered his optics with a sigh as the spray enfolded him, cooling his frame and washing away the unpleasant stickiness. As his body started to relax, his dream came flooding back. This time, as he stared into the reflective mask, he saw golden optics gazing back at him. Carapax?

"Great slag." 

He _knew_ what that strange smell had been, and why it was familiar. It was a combination of Soundwave's scent, and… bug. He cut his usual grooming routine in half in his rush to get back to his computer, where he re-opened Carapax's files. He no longer had any medical records from the _Nemesis_ , but the Cybertronian medical database had plenty of information on mechs belonging to Soundwave's frametype. There were reasons for that. A side-by-side comparison with Carapax's chart confirmed his theory.

"What do you know?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "I _am_ best doctor." He reached for his comm. "First Aid?"

The young medic sounded startled. "Knock Out? Are you coming to work today? I rescheduled three of your clients; they weren't happy."

"Sorry, but something urgent's come up. Can you make up a formula for me?" he asked, typing as he spoke. "Put a rush on it. I'm transmitting a list of ingredients… now."

He hit 'send.'

"Got it," First Aid said after a moment, then paused. "Can I ask what this is for?"

"It's for a patient," Knock Out replied. "Now if you don't mind, I really need to—"

"Wait, Knock Out!" First Aid said. That was twice now he'd said his name. Not 'doc,' not 'boss,' but Knock Out. "Are you okay? Should I book you off for the rest of the day?"

Knock Out glanced at his chrono. "Probably should, to be on the safe side."

Another hesitation. "You'd tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?" First Aid sounded so genuinely concerned that Knock Out couldn't bring himself to be annoyed by it.

"I'm fine, First Aid. I'll see you tomorrow."

He ended the call, made another, and waited. Before long, there was a buzz of wings outside. When he hurried to the balcony door, however, the bug depositing a fresh honey-pod wasn't Ripscare. It looked like the coppery-colored one who'd been with Ripscare that first night.

"Where's Ripscare?" Knock Out asked, feeling oddly disappointed. 

"Ripscare helping Carapax," the bug said, after introducing himself as Scuttle. "Everyone help. Carapax sick."

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

Knock Out got the story on the way to the Hive. Carapax had collapsed the previous night. They were alive, but terribly weak. The Hive was in an uproar when he arrived, but everyone seemed to be expecting his arrival. Insecticons scurried out of his and Scuttle's path, making way as they hurried to a protected chamber deep within the Hive.

There, he found Carapax lying in what looked like a silken hammock. They were being closely attended by Shrapnel and the two Bulls, while Drones hurried in and out, carrying food, water, and other things Knock Out couldn't identify. Ripscare, Knock Out noticed, was not among them, but his main focus right now was on the slim, silvery form stretched in the hammock. 

Carapax's golden optics opened at his approach, focusing with difficulty. "Doctor?"

"Carapax, I need to see your spark," Knock Out said, without preamble, and was immediately seized from behind. Powerful clawed arms grasped him, lifting him clear off the floor. It was one of the Bulls, the locust-y one. Knock Out tensed, readying himself for a battle he'd probably lose.

"Kickback, Kickback! Put down the doctor, doctor!"

The locust rumbled something that sounded hostile, but Shrapnel chittered at him in bug language and Kickback reluctantly set Knock Out down.

Shrapnel, who had edged closer to the hammock, addressed Knock Out. "What do you need to see it for-for?"

"I think I know what's wrong," Knock Out said, "but I need to see Carapax's spark in order to be certain."

Shrapnel glanced at Carapax, who touched his claw lightly. "All is well," they murmured, their voice parchment-thin. "The Seeker can be trusted."

 _Former Seeker_ , Knock Out nearly said, biting the words back just in time. Right now, there were more important things to think about.

Carapax's chest panels opened, and a deep violet light streamed out. Knock Out stepped closer and carefully ran a diagnostic wand through the spark's corona. And there it was. He caught his vents, fighting down a smile as he watched a tiny fleck of light pass through the wand's beam. He waited, counting kliks, until it passed through again.

"What is that-that?" Shrapnel asked. He had obviously seen it too. 

"A sparkling," Knock Out replied. "Congratulations."

A hush fell. Carapax tensed, wing-casings flaring in surprise, and Shrapnel's hand went to his egg-sac, cradling its fullness.

"How can this be-be?" the Queen asked. "I am the one who sparks-sparks." 

"Well, now you're not the _only_ one," Knock Out replied. "Carapax, do you know anything of your sire? Were they perhaps… _not_ Insecticon?"

Carapax was silent for a long moment. "The Queen from my original Hive was… attacked," they explained eventually, in a low voice. "I am told it happened during a mating flight. A silver, flying mech, not Insecticon, caught hold of my Queen in midair, and…" Carapax paused. 

The light from their spark stuttered, becoming erratic, and Shrapnel bent his terrifying helm to Carapax's and began stroking their face with his mandibles. 

"The Bulls were fast, and fierce," Carapax went on, "but the attacker was faster still, and had tentacles that gripped my Queen like ropes. He—" Carapax broke off again. 

"Say no more," Knock Out said. "I know the frametype you're describing." Soundwave's frametype had a sinister reputation for good reason. Their occasionally predatory mating practices were just part of it. "Do you believe the unknown mech was your sire?"

"I do. Some of the hatchlings that came from that flight were… strange. I was one of those." Carapax's fingers rose to brush one of the two shallow indentations that Knock Out now noticed on either side of their thorax. "So yes."

Knock Out sighed. It was a grim story, though it explained Carapax's telepathic abilities, as well as their current condition. "Your sire's frametype is known to have several unusual abilities," he told Carapax, "including the ability to spark symbiotes."

Multiple sets of optics focused on him. 

"Symbiotes-biotes?" Shrapnel asked. "What does that mean-mean?"

"It's… a smaller mech who lives on, or within, the frame of the parent," Knock Out explained, and went on to tell them about Soundwave and Laserbeak. 

The Insecticons listened attentively. When Knock Out was finished, Shrapnel asked, "This is why Carapax is sick-sick?"

"I believes so, yes. Carapax's frame is preparing to carry the symbiote, which would have different metallic and mineral requirements than a clutch of eggs. In essence, Carapax, you're not getting the right nutrition. But I can fix that."

Carapax brightened. "You can?"

"My assistant is already working on it," Knock Out said. "I can devise a supplement that will help you carry your symbiote to term."

"But the eggs," Shrapnel said, touching his bulging abdomen. "Can Carapax carry those too-too?"

The eggs, of course. Knock Out felt himself deflate. "I'm afraid not," he said. "If Carapax tries to carry both at once it'll make them a lot sicker, and they'll probably lose both the eggs and the sparkling."

He should have thought of that. 

Carapax vented a soft, sad sound, like the murmur of the wind. "This is why I have lost two clutches?" 

"It could be," Knock Out replied. "Symbiotes develop slowly. The carrying period can be half a vorn, sometimes more; you could already have been sparked for quite a while."

"Half a _vorn_?" the scarab-y Bull broke in. "You're sssaying they can't carry eggsss until after the sssymbiote's born?"

"I'm… afraid not," Knock Out admitted. So much for having all the answers. Not best doctor, after all. 

"But… eggs," Carapax whispered, putting a hand on Shrapnel's belly. "Hive will die without eggs."

Then everyone was talking at once.


	6. Remedy

The room was a cacophony. Everyone was yelling in bug-language, with the two Bulls being the loudest. Both were gesturing wildly as they argued with Shrapnel and, to a lesser degree, with each other.

Carapax was the only one who seemed not to be involved in the discussion. They had closed their chest panels and wrapped both foreclaws protectively across their spark. Grief and fear were seeping from them like ink into water, and Knock Out couldn't tell if the sick dread in the pit of his chassis was theirs, or his own.

This, he thought, was a perfect example of why cosmetic practice was preferable. When his clients got dramatic, it was about not having the latest, most _de rigueur_ slant to their optic ridges. Not… _this_ sort of thing. Not matters of birth and death. 

_There's a perfectly obvious solution,_ Pharma's oily voice whispered in the back of his mind. _No_ , he sent back. He didn't want to even think about that. The notion of extinguishing the tiny fleck of life he'd seen circling Carapax's spark was just… no.

It wasn't that he objected to terminations. He'd performed more than a few, especially during the war, and had seen enough bots in impossible situations to know that life sometimes offered no good alternatives; only slightly less-bad ones. But he'd come here thinking this would be good news. That the bugs would be relieved that their Host wasn't sick but simply carrying. If Carapax was right, though, and the Hive would die without this next clutch of eggs, the bugs were faced with some very stark choices. The question Knock Out had to ask himself was whether _he_ wanted to be involved.

Glancing around, he spotted the Drone named Scuttle, the one who'd brought him here. Scuttle was in deep conversation—or possibly arguing—with another Drone, an iridescent green one. 

"Hey, Scuttle!" Knock Out called, hurrying over to him. "I need you to do me a favor, okay?"

Scuttle paused mid-chitter, and looked at him. "Doctor need favor? Scuttle help."

Knock Out headed for the door, motioning for Scuttle to follow. He wanted—no, _needed_ —to put some distance between himself and this situation. More than anything, he needed to be somewhere where he could hear himself think. 

The passage outside was crowded with Drones. It was obvious that they knew something was going on. They were jostling against each other, vying to get as close as possible to the door, but they parted respectfully as Knock Out emerged with his escort. 

Knock Out heard mutters of "Doctor, doctor," as they gazed toward him with a palpable air of hope. Ugh.

"Is there somewhere we can go that's quieter?" he asked.

Scuttle guided him to a chamber. "What is the favor?"

"That we go somewhere quieter." Knock Out glanced around. This was the chamber he'd been taken to just a few days ago. It was the pod-chamber where he'd first met Carapax. The room was silent now, and many of the pods he'd seen pulsing in time with Carapax's song were dark and shriveled. He poked one experimentally with the tip of a claw. 

"What are these?"

"Drone larvae," Scuttle replied, expelling a mournful huff through his vents. "Hive not find enough energon to make food."

"Um… what do they eat?" Knock Out suspected that he wouldn't like the answer, and he didn't.

"Honey."

 _Oh._

Knock Out thought of the honey-pod in his subspace. Was _he_ responsible for this? At least in part? He remembered Ripscare saying the meal they'd shared would 'help.' He'd been too drunk and distracted to ask what it would help _with_ , but now it was blindingly obvious. 

_Good going, Knock. Why_ not _decimate an entire community while trying to hide your little issue?_ Of course the honey would serve some biological function; he hadn't seriously imagined the bugs manufactured it for the sole benefit of closeted Seekers, had he? Maybe Pharma had been right. Maybe Knock Out _should_ come out, and let the chips fall where they might. 

How often had Breakdown told him to do that very thing—at least, before the war had started? _You're a good doctor, Knock Out. That's why your patients come to you; not because of your frame._ Well, it seemed as if Knock Out might be about to put Breakdown's theory to the test, whether he wanted to or not. He activated his comm. 

"Hey," he said, when First Aid answered. "Got an E.T.A. on that formula?"

First Aid didn't, though he said was working on it. Knock Out thanked him, and was just ending the call when the door opened and the scarab-y Bull strode into the chamber. "Doctor," he said. "Queen and Carapaxxx wish to sssee you."

Knock Out stifled a sigh. He had a feeling he knew what they'd say to him, and while it was hard to disagree, he still didn't have to like it. "I don't believe I ever caught your name," he said as he followed the Bull back into the corridor, which was, by now, utterly deserted. 

"Name'sss Bombssshell," the scarab replied. He offered no further comment, so they walked in silence. A foreboding hush had settled over the Hive, making their footsteps seem unnaturally loud. When they re-entered the chamber, it was only the Queen and his court who awaited them there. Carapax was sitting up, though leaning heavily on Shrapnel, and Kickback was fidgeting nearby, clenching and unclenching his claws as if he didn't know what to do with them. 

The reaction reminded Knock Out so much of Breakdown, in a moment of frustrated helplessness, that he felt a swell of sympathy for the bug. Kickback was obviously used to solving problems with his fists. With that not being an option, he probably felt lost. Bombshell seemed to sense it too. He left Knock Out's side and scuttled over to the other Bull, giving him a supportive wing-bump. Then, everyone was looking at Knock Out. Carapax spoke first.

"Doctor," they said, glancing down at their foreclaws, which were still crossed protectively over their spark-chamber. "I sense from you that you already know what we must ask you to do."

"Is that what _you_ want?" Knock Out asked. Carapax looked frail surrounded by their much larger, more powerfully-built companions. If he was going to do this, he wanted some assurance that Carapax hadn't been forced into it. He felt a gentle brush of emotion from the creature. It tasted of deep sadness, but also resolve.

"It is not what I, or anyone here wants," Carapax said. "But there is no choice. We cannot lose another clutch of eggs. If there was some way I could carry both the eggs and this little one," they paused, folding their claws more tightly, "I know you would tell me."

"I would."

"Then…" The golden optics rose to meet his as the claws moved aside and a thin band of violet light reappeared down the center of their chest. "We have no choice."

"Wait," Knock Out said, holding a hand up. "Before I do this, there are a few things you need to know."

The spark-chamber closed. "What things?"

"As I said, you may have been carrying this symbiote for quite a while. Your body has been trying to adapt in order to meet its needs, which is why you haven't been able to carry any eggs to term. Even without the symbiote-spark in the picture, it'll take time for your body to readjust. There's no guarantee you'll be able to carry a clutch of eggs immediately after. You could lose these ones, too."

"I see," Carapax whispered. "Then I will have lost all my little ones." The silvery form sagged in dejection. 

The Bulls moved closer, and Shrapnel slipped his great claws around Carapax, crossing them over Carapax's own. "You are Host-Host," he said, his mandibles brushing the top of Carapax's helm. "Your decision is the law we must follow-follow."

"How can I choose?" came the soft reply. "I want all to live. But I cannot place this new little one above the needs of our entire Hive."

Shrapnel bowed his helm, and the silence that followed was unbearable. Knock Out glanced away, staring the ceiling in a vain attempt to distance himself from the situation unfolding before him. He felt like an intruder.

 _There's a perfectly obvious solution,_ Pharma's voice repeated in his mind. _As I've said many times, I'm a big,_ firm _believer in—_

 _Shut up_ , Knock Out told the voice.

 _Natural remedies,_ it persisted. 

Frag. Did he really _have_ to be thinking about Pharma at a time like this? It was probably his heat starting to break through again. He fumbled in his subspace and found the honey-pod, but when he brought it out, he could only stare at it. These creatures, whom he'd once thought of as monsters, were so unexpectedly… fragile.

"Have you thought of…" He paused, shocked at how loud his own voice sounded in the silence. "Um. Are there other Hives around? Maybe one that could spare a Host?"

It was Bombshell who responded. "Our Hive isss weak," he said. "We have nothing to offer a new Hossst."

"Nor any time for courting-courting," Shrapnel added. "I must mate soon, or my eggs will die-die."

Knock Out recalled what he'd read about eggs in Rangemaster's files. If they weren't deposited, the Queen's body would re-absorb them.

At the thought of Rangemaster, his mind flashed back to his mental image of the biologist at the foot of a Queen's throne, his belly stuffed with eggs—and with that, Knock Out's thoughts fell into place like a cascading set of dominoes. It was, of course, only natural. The natural _remedy;_ not just to his own problem, but that of the bugs, as well.

"Does your Host have to be Insecticon?" he asked. Rangemaster was Praxian, and Seekers were distantly related, but then again he had no _proof_ that Rangemaster had carried for his Queen. That part was, as First Aid had pointed out, a matter of reading between the lines.

"I am not," Carapax replied. "At least, not fully."

"Well…" Knock Out shifted his weight from one pede to the other, feeling very exposed under all four of their gazes. "I might know of a possible substitute. One you wouldn't have to court."

Shrapnel stared at him. His optics narrowed, and for one terrifying moment, Knock Out remembered that he was in the presence of four very large predators, any of which could easily rip him to shreds. And he had just, quite possibly, mortally insulted them.

"I mean," he said, quickly, "I know it's probably not that usual, but… but if the eggs are already fertilized, theoretically all they need is a nice, warm gestational tank in which to grow. And mine—" he paused, thinking about how, just a day earlier, he'd sworn this was disgusting "—happens to be available."

It made far too much sense. If his gestational tank was stuffed full of eggs, his body would assume he was carrying. His heat would vanish, and he'd be able to function normally at work without the honey, and without Pharma's pills. At the same time, Carapax would be able to continue carrying their symbiote. It wouldn't solve the energon shortage the Insecticons seemed to be enduring, but it would solve at least one of their problems. 

A tendril of reassurance touched his mind, drawing his gaze to meet Carapax's. "You would do that for us, doctor?"

"It's… Knock Out," he muttered. Considering they seemed about to get to know each other on a whole new level of intimacy. 

"Come here."

It was… not quite an order, but he obeyed. Carapax's claws rose and settled on his arms, and then drew him into a full-bodied embrace. The ragged wings folded around him, enclosing him in a soft gray world in which only the two of them existed. 

"Are you sure of this?" they asked. 

Knock Out wasn't sure at all, but he rested his helm on the narrow chest. He could feel the violet spark beating beneath his cheek. "No," he replied, truthfully. He stepped back, disengaging far enough to meet Carapax's gaze. "It does seem like the best available option, though, doesn't it?"

The wings were like gossamer silk, fanning his arms as Carapax regarded him. Their mind brushed his, a light, undemanding touch that seemed to uncover all his secrets.

"It does," Carapax agreed.

"Wait," Bombshell said. "We are rushing into thisss, are we not? How do we know we can trussst him?" 

"We don't," Kickback replied. "And it also means we have to frag him. Repeatedly," he added, glancing over Knock Out's frame. "Isn't that kind of… weird?"

"Hmm." Bombshell glanced at Knock Out as well, his antennae twitching. "A sssacrifice I am willing to make, for the sssake of our Hive." 

He nudged Kickback's arm, eliciting a growl and a mutter of something in bug-language that Knock Out was just as pleased not to have a translation for. 

"He will not harm the eggs," Carapax said, "but you must each decide for yourselves what you're willing to do."

The Bulls, and Carapax, glanced at Shrapnel, who inclined his helm. 

"Welcome to our Hive-Hive," he said, reaching to touch Knock Out's shoulder. "We will take excellent care of you, Host Knock Out-Knock Out."


	7. Bride of the Bugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [Dark Star of Chaos](https://darkstarofchaos.tumblr.com/) for creating this wonderful illustration of Carapax! I love the design and, especially, the colors, and I'm so honored that my character has inspired such amazing creativity! <3

_So this is how you get bugged_ , Knock Out thought as he trailed his hand through the warm water. His claws left furrows in the rich lather, which was designed to remove any artificial waxes or other strong-smelling substances from his plating.

 _It will be easier for the Bulls if you smell like one of us,_ Carapax had explained. _Once you are carrying, you will smell good to them without special preparation._

That was good to know considering that, in order for the eggs to develop, the Bulls would need to provide daily 'donations' of transfluid during the first two trimesters of Knock Out's carrying period. Satisfying as that sounded, especially in his current overheated condition, Knock Out wasn't sure he could have gone six orns without his regular grooming routine. Some sacrifices were more easily made than others.

Carapax had also advised him to relax. _A relaxed frame is important,_ they had said. Knock Out could easily guess why. He had, however, chosen the Rangemaster files as his bath-time entertainment, reading directly from his HUD so as to avoid the risk of getting a datapad wet. The files, while dull in places, weren't all that relaxing.

First Aid had sounded surprised when Knock Out had asked him to comm him the files. He'd seemed even more startled by Knock Out's instructions to leave the supplement formula he'd just finished preparing _on the roof_ of the medical building, though he'd agreed gamely enough. Good mech, First Aid was.

"By the way," Knock Out had said as they were ending their conversation, "whatever do you suppose became of old Rangemaster?"

"Became? What do you mean?"

"Was he ever heard from again? Or," Knock Out had paused on a nervous chuckle, "do you think the bugs simply ate him?"

The line fell silent. Knock Out grimaced, and was about to put the conversation out of its misery when he heard a faint clatter of keys. First Aid was looking it up.

"Actually, he's lecturing on Titan next orn."

"He is?"

"Yeah, he's got a book out. It sounds pretty interesting. He's got this whole theory about how predator-prey relationships between various Beastformer species prevented them from forming alliances. He thinks that's why the old caste system was able to become so entrenched, and—"

"We clearly have different understandings of what qualifies as 'interesting,'" Knock Out had cut in.

First Aid had laughed. "I'm a geek, don't mind me. But it sounds like he's doing pretty well. What makes you ask?"

"Oh, no special reason," Knock Out had replied, staring at Rangemaster's drawing of the ovipositor. "Call it an academic interest." He'd ended the call before First Aid could ask any more questions, and that was that. He was staring at the ovipositor again now.

What would that feel like, sliding into him? Would it be stiff and hard, like a spike? Or would it be flexible, designed as it was to pry its way into tight places? How would it feel when those dilation-rings expanded, stretching his innermost channel? Would it hurt? What about taking a load of eggs? Would _that_ hurt? What if he couldn't handle it? If he asked the bugs to stop, would they?

The news about Rangemaster was reassuring. If he'd gotten bugged and lived to tell the tale—or to keep it secret, as the case might be—that was a hopeful sign. Of course, that was assuming Rangemaster _had_ gotten bugged. Knock Out had no proof of that, though Rangemaster's drawing of the ovipositor was so… _intimate._ That was the only word that fit. It was drawn with such reverence and, well… love. Which didn't prove anything, but it did suggest that the artist had first-hand experience with the organ in question.

Knock Out shifted, letting his thighs brush together. The water swirling around him felt like a caress, as did the cool air fanning his chest and shoulders. The honey's effects had worn off, leaving him feverish and shaky. His fingers twitched at the memory of cradling Shrapnel's heavy, silken egg-sac. He'd re-examined it before his bath. The eggs were definitely ripe now. He'd counted at least a dozen of them sliding around inside the sac, slippery and ready to be deposited. Shrapnel had kept his panel closed this time, but his pungent mating-scent had been heavy in the air.

Knock Out arched with a groan, his legs parting for the water's aimless touch. His body wanted this. All of it—including, apparently, the tank-load of eggs. It was definitely a compelling fantasy. He could self-pleasure to that all day long, or even role-play it, with the right partner. But actually _do_ it? His hand strayed to his belly. Was he crazy? His heat-cycle had gotten him into plenty of sticky situations in the past. Why was he listening to it now? Maybe he ought to listen to Pharma's advice instead. Just come out: tell everyone what he was, and deal with the consequences.

There was a quiet scuffling sound from behind, and a shadow fell across his bath. "Is doctor ready?" a soft, lilting voice enquired.

Knock Out glanced up at the iridescent green Drone, whose name was Flitter. Carapax had assigned her—Knock Out thought she was a 'her'—to assist him with the preparations. Knock Out was, for reasons he didn't want to examine, both relieved and disappointed that it wasn't Ripscare.

"As ready as I'm going to be," he replied, starting to push himself up. His pede slipped on the uneven floor of the bathing pool. He splashed back down with a grunt of surprise, but the Drone was at his side in a swift blur of wings. 

"Flitter help," she said, catching his arm with a firm claw. She lifted him from the water with a single, smooth tug, and drew a bundle of ragged cloths from subspace. "May I dry you?"

A rush of heat flooded his system. "Sure." She'd pulled him out as if he weighed nothing, and he liked that. His long-standing weakness for big bots seemed to extend even to bugs.

Flitter swept one of the cloths over the top of Knock Out's helm and down one of his cheeks. The material wasn't much to look at, but it was surprisingly soft and smelled the way Ripscare had that night on the balcony. A clean, metallic scent that made him think of open roads and desert winds.

"Softest webs of any Hive," Knock Out murmured, and began to laugh.

Flitter withdrew the cloth, giving him a quizzical look. "This is… funny?"

"I… no." Knock Out realized he might be mildly hysterical, and gave himself a beat to calm down. "It's just… I've never been a Host before."

"We understand," Flitter said as she resumed drying him. "It is great honor to have you among us. Hosts are most revered members of Hive. We serve with gratitude, and with love."

Love, huh?

But it was true. Love seemed woven through every facet of the bugs' world, and how they lived with one another. How ironic that, of all their characteristics, this was the one he found most alien. He shuttered his optics as the cloth glided over his shoulders and arms, and tried not to shiver _too_ obviously. His frame was almost painfully sensitive, and the fabric, which was soft as the finest polishing cloths, felt… _too_ nice. Especially when being wielded by those strong, yet gentle hands. It felt…

_Oh, slag._

Without his protective wax shell, there was nowhere to hide. Any scents the bugs picked up from him would be… _him_. Just him, and Flitter couldn't possibly miss the scent of his arousal. But maybe Drones didn't mind that? Ripscare had said that Drones didn't reproduce, so maybe they didn't have sexual feelings. He was able to console himself with that thought until Flitter's hands reached his hips.

"I'll take it from here," he said, grabbing the handful of rags.

"As you wish." Flitter stepped back and waited patiently while Knock Out scrubbed himself dry. When he was finished, she produced a second bundle of cloth from her subspace. "This Carapax's Host mantle," she explained, unfurling it. "Carapax will be honored if Host Knock Out will wear."

It was a robe made of the same web material as the drying cloths, though it was much finer. Its color was silver rather than gray, and it was woven with subtle patterns that shifted and glimmered in the light. Knock Out touched it. Its folds were feather-light, slipping through his fingers like water.

"Just call me Bride of the Bugs," he said, and almost giggled again. The mental image of himself on a vintage Earth horror-movie poster, about to be carried off to some terrifying-yet-titillating fate at the hands—or claws—of giant insects, was hilarious. _But only because it's true_ , he reminded himself as he turned to let Flitter drape the garment around his shoulders. If nothing else, the mantle would mask his scent, giving him a modicum of privacy.

"Where to?" he asked, once fully draped. Carapax was a lot taller than he was, and the garment's folds swept clear to the floor, pooling in a shimmering pile at his feet. Flitter scooped up the end and directed him toward the passage, carrying the hem of the robe almost like a wedding train. As if he'd needed to feel any _more_ bridal. Knock Out did have to admit that the fabric felt lovely against his frame, though. It swirled sensuously around his thighs as he walked along the silent passages, heading toward… 

A renewed quiver of fear stirred in his belly. Was he actually _doing_ this? He'd detected nothing but kindness and respect from Carapax, as well as from the rest of the Hive. They had the capacity for violence but had treated him with care from the start, even more so once he'd agreed to be their Host. But now, as he approached a set of doors at the end of the passage, he was finding that a very thin reassurance.

 _This is it_ , he told himself. This was his last chance to change his mind. But then the doors were sliding open, spilling a band of silver light into the corridor. A by-now familiar presence brushed the edges of Knock Out's mind as he stepped to the threshold and peered into the room beyond.

The mating chamber was, as he might have expected, something like a berth-room. Its walls were curved and organically-shaped, similar to those of other chambers he'd seen within the Hive, and it was dimly lit by a soft, seemingly sourceless luminescence. The berth, if that's what it was, took up most of the room. It was roughly disk-shaped and covered in a grayish, cloud-like material. Gauzy web-curtains hung all around it, giving it a feeling of seclusion.

Carapax was seated on the berth, cross-legged and seemingly alone. They were sitting straight up, wings elegantly tucked behind them, and appeared far stronger than when Knock Out had seen them last. "Welcome, Knock Out," they said. "I am glad you have chosen to stay."

"I'm… not entirely sure I have," Knock Out admitted. He glanced back, but Flitter was nowhere in sight.

"Come inside," Carapax said. "It is just the two of us, for now, and I would like to see you in the mantle."

Knock Out reached for the hem of his now-dragging robe, but then changed his mind and just strode forward, letting it flow out behind him. Carapax's mouth wasn't made for smiling, but Knock Out felt something like a smile from them anyway.

"You look wonderful."

"So do you," Knock Out said. "Are you feeling better?"

"I am," Carapax replied. "Your medicine is working." 

"Either that or you've made a spontaneous recovery," Knock Out said, glancing over Carapax's upright form. The silver armor had taken on a new depth of luster, and their wings, while still ragged, didn't appear nearly as fragile as before.

"You doubt that it is your medicine?"

"I've… never known a supplement to work this quickly," Knock Out admitted. He remembered what First Aid had said about the bugs' ability to regenerate. Was it possible First Aid was on to something? Filing the thought away for later consideration, Knock Out asked, "So what happens now? And where are the others?

"Shrapnel and the Bulls await your pleasure, but first, I wished to speak with you alone. I sense that you find me less…" they paused as if searching for a word.

"Intimidating?" Knock Out suggested. He wasn't above admitting it.

There was a shimmer of amusement from Carapax. "Indeed." They raised a claw—one of those terrifying mantid claws, beautifully designed for clipping the limbs off living prey—and tipped their helm to one side. An invitation.

Knock Out took a step closer. "I've read about how this works," he said. "The bulls have a go at me first, then Shrapnel?"

"Each will pleasure you in turn, yes."

Knock Out brushed one of his own claws along the limb's serrated cutting edge. It was every bit as sharp as it looked.

"Does it… hurt?" he asked. "When Shrapnel does the… the… um." He trailed off. His grasp of language seemed to be evaporating with the last drops of water that still clung to his frame.

"It can be painful, especially the first time." Carapax paused. "Knock Out, you may have heard that my kind used to capture other mechs and force them to become Hosts against their will. We did this to Seekers, especially."

"I've… heard stories, yes." Of course, similar tales were told about Seekers, too, and he knew better than to believe those.

"There is no justification for our past behavior," Carapax went on. "It was barbaric, and we would not do any such thing now. We will not proceed without full consent."

"Even if your Hive depends on it?" Knock Out had to ask.

"Even then." The claw turned, presenting its blunt edge to Knock Out's palm. "If you are afraid, or in pain, or wish to stop for any reason, we will honor that."

Again, there was a soft brush of Carapax's mind opening to his. There was no pretense in the mental caress, or anything held back, nor any pressure to take what was being offered. Just honesty and invitation, along with a deeper current of admiration and… yes. Desire.

Knock Out accepted the proffered claw, tracing its sculpted curve up to Carapax's… wrist? Elbow? The limb turned over, exposing sensitive cables to his touch. "I think that's what I needed to hear," he murmured. His body agreed, and he let the barriers slip, the last of his control dissolving into delicious heat as he bent to nip softly at the cables. He worked his way up the arm to one of the slender shoulders, and their gazes met.

Carapax was holding still, watching him carefully. Knock Out leaned in and brushed his lips to one of the blade-like mandibles. Soft wings unfurled to surround him, and powerful arms drew him up onto the cloud-like berth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update! This chapter was tough, and I give extra credit (and doggy pics!) to Biting Moopie for helping me figure it out. In our chats, it also became clear that she'd thought the tentacled mech who attacked Carapax's parent was, in fact, Soundwave. That wasn't my intent, so I've added a small clarifying detail in Chapter 5 in case anyone else thought the same thing. Some of you will also have noticed that the chapter count has increased! Since there's no longer a deadline, I've decided to let the story expand to its full scope. That's taken some re-thinking of my outline, but should result in a stronger story overall. Lastly, apologies for leaving you on the brink like this! I'll update asap, so as not to leave you hanging.


	8. Our Richness

_Is this good?_ Carapax's question was a melodic whisper in Knock Out's thoughts, and he realized they were speaking to him mind-to-mind.

"It is… so far," Knock Out replied. He wasn't sure if he was ready to give telepathy a spin. Carapax accepted that and withdrew, their emotions swirling languidly against his as he continued his exploration of their mouth. He was lying half on top of Carapax, keeping his weight off their frame for fear of causing damage in their current, weakened condition. He didn't know how to kiss a mouth such as theirs, so he'd settled for rubbing his chin against the fearsome jaws.

"I sense you enjoy strength," Carapax said, aloud this time.

"Always have liked big frames."

The powerful arms tightened, drawing him to kneel astride Carapax's narrow hips. The mantle shifted around him, a secondary caress that drew a helpless groan from him as bladed jaws explored his throat. 

"You also like to be seen, appreciated, and…" Carapax opened the mantle's collar with a flick of a mandible "…desired. You are very beautiful, Knock Out."

He shivered. Carapax might still be recovering from their recent illness, but there was solid power coiled beneath him. He knew the mandibles which were now brushing his throat and chest could open _him_ as easily as they'd opened the mantle. The thought should have terrified him, but instead, it was strangely thrilling.

"So are you," Knock Out whispered. He reached toward one of Carapax's wings. "May I?" Perhaps it was a holdover from his Seeker days, but he was hesitant about touching anyone's wings without permission. 

"Touch anywhere you wish," Carapax invited. "I promise I won't bite."

There was humor behind the statement, though Knock Out guessed that Carapax could sense his apprehension. He'd had some unusual berth-companions, but never _this_ unusual. How would he measure up? Would he be able to please someone like Carapax?

"Do you like what I'm doing?" he asked, running a hand along the wing's edge. The membranes were still brittle, though a healthy iridescent sheen had begun to appear around the finely-etched veins. If this was simply the result of having taken the supplement, Carapax must have some kind of healing super-power. 

"Very much," came the soft reply. 

"I used to have wings," Knock Out said, now following the path of his hand with light kisses. "Mine were sensitive too. I used to like—" He stopped himself at a sudden, painfully sharp memory of Breakdown's hands stroking his wings. _Don't think about that; not now._

A claw stroked his headfins. "All emotions are valid," Carapax said. "Grief is as welcome as any other. I sense a great loss in you. Someone you loved?"

"My conjunx," Knock Out admitted. There really were _no_ secrets here, were there? But Knock Out found he didn't mind. Carapax's emotional touch was as gentle as their claw gliding against his helm. Carapax wasn't intruding, nor trying to push him in any particular direction. They were simply… _there_. With him. "His name was Breakdown. He… died. Just before the war ended."

Strong arms gathered him close. "I understand. I have lost… many."

Knock Out thought of the dead Drone larvae, and of how Carapax had been singing to them on that first day. Had Carapax known, even then, that the larvae were doomed? He thought, too, of the lost clutches of eggs, and of the fragile young spark Carapax now guarded behind their breastplate. 

"All of those," Carapax agreed, "and others, too."

"You seem… _not_ sad," Knock Out said. Spoken aloud, the words sounded juvenile, like something a sparkling might say. But 'happy' wouldn't have been the right word to describe the emotion he sensed from Carapax. It was a kind of stillness. A sinking in, like a plunge into deep waters. Carapax's losses swirled around him in a rising current, and Carapax seemed to be holding all of them anchored within their slender form. Not one was forgotten, but equally, none were held back from their natural flow. 

"I feel many things in this moment," Carapax said. "Sadness is part of it, but so is joy." There was a pause, as if Carapax was considering their next words. "What's gone is _not_ gone, Knock Out. My little ones are alive within me, as your mate is within you. We carry our loves with us. They become part of who we are. Our richness."

"Damn." Knock Out tore his gaze from Carapax's. It was eerie to recognize his own thought being repeated back to him in someone else's voice. Making out with a telepath was… about as much of a trip as he probably should have expected. Had he really stopped to think about it.

"I did not mean to intrude."

"You didn't," Knock Out said. "It's my heat. It… brings things up."

"It seeks to cleanse you."

"I suppose," Knock Out said. He'd never thought about it that way. His heat brought up sexual hunger, but it made all his other emotions brighter and sharper, their edges more cutting. It was like being trapped inside an emotional pinball game, his hormones slamming him between lust, rage and the bottomless well of grief that lurked beneath all of it, ready to swallow him if he got too close.

Carapax's forehelm touched his. "Beautiful one, you do not have to please me. Your presence here is my greatest pleasure. May I take care of you, and prepare you for mating?"

Knock Out met the honey-colored gaze. Breakdown's optics had been that same color, a golden warmth you could drown in. So had his spark been. This wasn't about just getting bugged. There was more to this, something deeper. Something he didn't dare name.

Instead of replying, he brushed his thumbs against the two indentations he'd previously noticed on either side of Carapax's torso. "Are these what I think they are?"

There was a quiver of mischievous understanding as disk-shaped protrusions pushed outward from the indentations, revealing themselves to be a pair of tentacles. "Is this what you were imagining?"

"Hm, yes." Knock Out twined his arms around the tentacles, which curled around his wrists and slithered up his arms. They dipped beneath the mantle and slipped it back from his shoulders. He shivered with a soft moan, squirming in Carapax's lap as cool air brushed his vents. 

"You like these," Carapax said. 

"So, _so_ much."

The tentacles were silver, the segments separated by rings which glowed a soft violet. Each was tipped with a set gripping-claws, much like the ones Knock Out had seen on Soundwave's. He brushed a finger against one of the sets of claws, and smiled when they closed around the digit, gripping with firm strength. He raised the tentacle to his lips. Carapax brushed the small blades against his mouth and jaw in a ticklish caress while the other tentacle slipped beneath the mantle to curl around his waist. 

"I am pleased that you like them." Carapax's claws rose to his shoulders. "May I disrobe you?"

Knock Out nodded. The claws pushed the fabric down over his back, exposing him by degrees. His heat-scent, liberated from its silk prison, came flooding out. It was about as subtle as a neon billboard, and he felt a pulse of… tenderness… fondness… gratitude… from Carapax. A tentacle peeled the garment from his lower frame and carefully deposited it at the edge of the berth. Then the tentacles were taking turns slipping down over his back in long, sweeping caresses.

"Your scent is lovely," Carapax said. "So honest."

"Honest, hmm?" That was a first where it came to berthroom compliments, but Knock Out wasn't going to complain. One of the tentacles had slithered between his legs and was stroking his inner thighs. When the tip nudged his panel, he opened with a sigh. The cool air felt delightful against his overheated valve, and the tentacle that followed, tracing his wet folds with the lightest of touches, was simply… "Oh. Oh frag."

"Is _this_ good?"

Knock Out simply groaned, spreading his legs in a wordless plea for more. It should have been frightening to have the bladed tip stroking such a sensitive part of his body, but the touch was exquisite. The little claws parted his damp folds, blunt edges trailing teasingly against his external node. When the tip bumped his entrance he wriggled against it with a moan, his body aching to be breached. 

A playful light shimmered behind Carapax's optics—and that was all the warning Knock Out got before the great claws blurred into motion and he found himself flipped on his back. The tentacles snaked around his thighs, coils tightening on him with devastating strength.

"And this?" 

Carapax was leaning over his pinned form, claws toying with his vents. He was in the most deliciously vulnerable position, his bound legs pressed firmly to his chest and his array wide open for… whatever Carapax might decide to do next. How had Carapax _known?_ Oh, right, telepath. Since words were not his friends right now, he reached back through the emotional connection and tried to let Carapax feel what he was feeling. Carapax responded with a purr, and kissed him.

Carapax's mouth didn't seem made for kissing any more than it was for smiling, but that didn't stop them. The bladed mouth brushed his, mandibles nicking ever so softly at his cheeks. A snake-like proboscis traced his lips, seeking entrance, and when he opened, it delved into his mouth to curl around his glossa. It felt utterly alien, yet wonderful, especially when those terrible claws rose to cup his helm, cradling his cheeks as if he were something precious.

 _You are very brave_ , Carapax said, speaking within his mind once more. 'Brave' was also a first when it came to compliments, but Knock Out supposed he'd take it. The proboscis withdrew. "I am not lying, Host Knock Out. You are as brave as you are beautiful, and it is an honor to pleasure you."

The crest of the triangular helm pressed to his forehelm in an affectionate head-bump. Then the frightening mouth was at his throat, nibbling the cables beneath his chin. Knock Out arched into the touch, straining against the tentacles. Carapax understood. They anchored him firmly in place, giving him no choice but to surrender as they nuzzled his chest and midriff, proboscis delicately tracing the seams of his armor. Knock Out whimpered and moaned, his body writhing helplessly within his bonds. By the time the proboscis reached his groin, he was dizzy with need.

Carapax shifted their grip, raising his hips so he could watch as the tip of their proboscis circled his valve. The sinuous organ traced the outer lips, parted them with a delicate touch, and began exploring his wet folds with agonizingly slow, gentle strokes. Emotion spilled through the telepathic connection. Knock Out sensed that his taste was unfamiliar, and fascinating, and he couldn't help being reminded of a butterfly sipping nectar from a flower. 

_An apt comparison_ , Carapax's voice whispered within his mind. _You are indeed much like a flower, and just as fragrant._

And the compliments just kept getting more unique, didn't they? Then Carapax found his external node, and he choked on a whine. Carapax's gaze rose to meet his. Their proboscis circled his sensitive nub, flicked it softly, and set about tonguing it to a painful hardness. Watching it happen was as incredible as feeling it. Carapax was beautiful, poised above him with their wings spread, the glow from their tentacles pulsing in time with the movements of their proboscis. 

Even more incredible was the backdrop of emotion. Knock Out sensed that Carapax found him beautiful in ways that went far beyond his outward appearance. That he was wanted here, and welcomed, and… loved? That didn't seem like the right word. This wasn't the kind of love he'd shared with Breakdown. That had been incomparable. Then again, so was this. He was being welcomed into something bigger than he was, and there was a place for him here, if he wanted it. 

A place with the bugs. How… unexpected. 

What surprised him most was how much he _did_ want it, and knowing it was impossible made no difference whatsoever. Then the proboscis circled his entrance, darting inside with teasing swirls, and all thought disintegrated. He bucked, hungry valve clenching around the teasing tip as he tried to capture it. Carapax withdrew with a chirr that might have been laughter, and swept back to his node. Which did feel lovely, but…

"Please," he hissed. "Please, please…"

The proboscis delved back into his cleft. His hands, which were still free, flew to either side of his frame, claws gathering fistfuls of the cloud-like silk. Carapax chirred again, delight obvious, and the vibrations unfurled through his lower abdomen like tongues of flame. The clever proboscis found the caliper rings within his channel and began to massage them, coaxing them to relax. Their wings draped over him, fanning his armor in soft caresses as the proboscis began to slide in and out, sweetly fucking him. When Carapax hit the ceiling node at the top of his channel, something volcanic broke loose.

"Frag! I… oh! Oh frag, Carapax—"

Hot tingles cascaded through his thighs and belly. A rush of charge followed, sweeping him toward climax with shocking speed. Damn. He wasn't some virgin. He could last longer than this, couldn't he? 

_Let yourself come_ , Carapax told him. _I will be there to catch you._

As if there was much of a choice at this point. A sob, half shout, ripped its way from somewhere deep inside Knock Out's frame. He writhed against Carapax's tentacles as something—something _big_ —tore loose within and blasted through his frame like a rolling wave. When it hit his spark, he howled. He was distantly aware of snarling, of gnashing his dentae and growling like a wild creature. There was nothing tame about this, nothing civilized. This was his heat roaring through him in its full, primordial ferocity, burning everything in its path.

When it finally released him he sagged in his cage of tentacles, which now felt like a needed support, and he noticed he was whimpering. The wonderful proboscis eased out. Carapax bestowed a final, tender lick to his array, then eased him back onto the berth and draped themselves over him. Their wings unfurled, covering him like a blanket. 

"What…" Knock Out squeezed his optics shut. "What was that?"

"Fire cleanses," Carapax reminded him, nuzzling his headfins. "That is the deeper purpose of the heat."

"I—" he broke off, fighting to get words past the constriction in his throat. "I knew there had to be some deeper reason I was avoiding it."

He buried his face against Carapax's slender throat. His optics weren't burning. Not at all. Nor did he have the sudden urge to bawl like a lost sparkling. He'd just had the overload of his life; that was all there was to it. No need to ascribe any deeper meaning, and certainly nothing… mystical. 

Carapax rolled him to lie atop their frame. Arms, wings and tentacles surrounded him, forming a protective cocoon. After a moment, he realized there was music. It was soft and low, like a lullaby. Like leaves in the wind. It was insect, and alien, and at the same time utterly familiar. Utterly safe and comforting.

What _would_ it be like to belong? Here, or anywhere? Knock Out tried to push the thought aside, because it only led back to that last morning with Breakdown. To waking with him thinking everything was finally right, and the life they'd imagined for themselves was finally within reach. All they had to do was grab hold, never again to let go. 

_Love has not been easy for you._

Knock Out shook his helm, not trusting his voice at all now. Bladed kisses pressed to his helm, the tentacles flowing over him as the music continued. Knock Out allowed the tumult of his emotions to be lulled until he felt weightless, with nothing but the soft wings to hold him. He didn't know how long he drifted, but he did know when the desire began to build again. That was his heat for you. Once it got going, there wasn't much that could slow it down.

Carapax sensed it too. The humming deepened to a primal throb, and Knock Out's spark-pulse quickened. He shifted, raising himself on his elbows to meet honey-colored optics. 

"I've got more to burn."

"I can feel that. Shall I send for the others?"

Others. Knock Out had nearly forgotten about them, and the recollection of what was supposed to happen next filled him with equal parts hunger and dread.

Carapax's claw glided against his cheek. "You remember what I told you," they said. "If you wish to stop, we do understand."

Knock Out paused to examine his feelings. "It's not that I want to stop," he said. "It's…" Again, he hesitated. 

Strangely, the image coming to mind was of waking in a post-op recovery berth and reaching back to feel the nubs where his wings had been, and where his dorsal wheel-mounts _would_ be, once he'd recovered. It was that feeling. That sense of a door closing at his back. Whatever happened now, he would not be leaving this chamber as the same person who'd walked in. Maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he wanted to try on a sense of belonging, the way he'd tried on Carapax's mantle. Imperfect as the fit might be, it would give him a taste of being part of something.

"Carapax?"

The golden optics met his. He hesitated. A phrase such as 'thank you' seemed hopelessly trite under the circumstances. Instead, Knock Out slid his arms around the slim, powerful form, and pressed his forehelm to Carapax's in a head-bump to answer the one they'd given him earlier. Wings surrounded him.

_You are very welcome._

The words, telepathically spoken, came with a secondary layer of meaning. He was welcome, and _welcomed._ How ironic, to have spent so much of his life looking for that very thing, only to have it offered to him by creatures so unlike himself. He relaxed into the embrace for a few kliks before the stirring of his heat reminded him there were three _very_ big mechs waiting for him. "Okay, I'm ready," he said. "Bring them in."

A low, electric hum resonated in Carapax's chest. The chamber doors opened, and three figures entered. Shrapnel was in the lead, his two Bulls following at a respectful distance. At least it was respectful until Bombshell, the scarab-Bull, dropped all semblance of decorum to scuttle ahead of the other two. "Ready for me, Hosssst Knock Out?" he asked, reaching for Knock Out's wheel-mounts with an eager claw.

"Bombshell." Carapax's tone held a note of warning.

Bombshell froze and took a step back. "Forgive my lack of mannersss. Your ssscent is delicioussss, I could not resissst." He bent low, antenna-tips sweeping the floor, and clasped his foreclaws in supplication. "Hosssst Knock Out, may I pleassse frag you?"

Knock Out surveyed the bowed form in bemusement. Shrapnel, Carapax and Kickback, the second Bull, were doing much the same. Kickback, in particular, was watching from behind one of Shrapnel's wing-guards. His gaze was darting back and forth between and Bombshell and Knock Out with an expression of horrified fascination.

Bombshell, however, seemed without shame. He'd raised his wing-casings, exposing his iridescent wings in a gesture of respect that was marred just slightly by the quivering of his frame. Every line of him spoke of banked power, and he smelled rather delicious himself. His desire was a heady, metallic tang in the air.

"How can I refuse an offer like that?" Knock Out said as his own frame trembled in response.

Bombshell raised his helm, craning his neck to offer a beseeching look. His antics drew a click of… humor? irritation? …from Shrapnel, and Knock Out felt a corresponding glimmer of mirth from Carapax.

"Bombshell needs a yes," Carapax murmured, their tentacles undulating softly against Knock Out's flanks.

"Then… yes," Knock Out whispered. "Frag, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than I'd have liked, but was hopefully worth the wait. Turns out _writing_ about sex with a telepath comes with its own set of challenges! Luckily I had my intrepid beta, Biting Moopie, to get me through the rough patches. Additional virtual chocolate is winging its way to her home via Skywarp, who has assured me that he totally isn't going to eat it all himself.


	9. A Mossst Deliciousss Torment

Carapax brushed their jaws against Knock Out's cheeks in what felt like a final blessing, then slid away from him. Knock Out was left alone, sitting up on his knees, but only for a moment. Bombshell, with a gratified hiss, sprang onto the berth.

"I have been looking forward to thisss," Bombshell said as he knelt on the cloud-like berth behind Knock Out, claws quivering as he trailed them down Knock Out's sides. 

"So have I," Knock Out replied. Bombshell's frame-heat was like a furnace and Knock Out, suddenly chilled by the coolness of the room in contrast to the fever of his heat, leaned back into it, soaking it up.

Carapax settled at the far end of the berth, facing Knock Out but not staring directly at him. The majority of their attention now seemed focused on Shrapnel, who had draped his enormous frame onto the berth next to Carapax. The pair exchanged nuzzles while the second Bull, Kickback, perched behind them. He toyed absently with one of Carapax's tentacles while sneaking glances past their shoulder at Knock Out and Bombshell, his expression a mixture of curiosity and doubt. 

Apparently, Knock Out was going to have an audience for this. He didn't mind. It wasn't that he didn't trust the Bulls, but he still felt better knowing that Carapax would be keeping an optic on the proceedings. Besides which, he liked putting on a show. On those not-so-rare occasions when he and Breakdown had invited a guest to join them in the berth, that had been one of the things he'd enjoyed most. He'd loved making Breakdown watch while he got down and dirty with the other mech until his poor Breakdown, unable to stand it any more, had lost control and jumped in. 

Bombshell's wicked claws had reached his flanks. The sight of them curled around his hips probably should have been alarming, but instead, Knock Out could only marvel at their size and power. They dwarfed his hips, making him feel downright petite in Bombshell's grasp. His claws, Knock Out noted, were nothing like Carapax's. The mantid claws were long, tapered, and fixed in the shape of large clippers. Bombshell's were prehensile, acting as both fingers and dangerous weapons.

Knock Out stifled a groan of anticipation as claw-fingers tightened on his flanks and lifted him, ever so carefully, to kneel astride Bombshell's lap. Knock Out heard the low hiss of a panel opening, and something hot and blunt nudged his lower back. Knock Out couldn't resist grinding against it, and grinned at the heavy, chittering moan this drew from Bombshell. He twisted around for a glimpse of Bombshell's spike, and wasn't disappointed. 

It was like a cudgel. Short and blunt, with a broad crown that was already leaking amber fluid. Knock Out curled his hand around it, and smiled as a tremor passed through the enormous frame at his back. A gentle brush of his thumb across the crown drew out a series of whimpers. 

Knock Out's smile widened. "Where have you been all my life?"

The whimpers became ragged whispers. "I-I have… I have been… ohhh…"

Bombshell bucked into his hand, seeking friction, and Knock Out couldn't help but oblige. He stroked the thick shaft, enjoying how the knobbly segments felt sliding against his palm. He could only imagine how this would feel sliding _into_ him. Letting go, he rocked forward on his knees to line himself up. Bombshell groaned and pushed forward but Knock Out withdrew, teasing both of them.

More than anything, he wanted to take that incredible spike all the way inside and feel it pop through his rings. His heat demanded just that, but he also wanted to savor this. He was about to be fragged—by a bug. Knock Out had had some wild adventures in the berth but this was a first, and he wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

"Pleassse…" Bombshell was gripping Knock Out's hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Pleassse, pleassse…"

And forget savoring. Knock Out needed Bombshell inside him, stat. He pressed back. Bombshell looped a long arm around Knock Out's waist and shifted forward, scooping his hips beneath Knock Out's in the same fluid motion as he lifted him onto his spike. Knock Out groaned as the thick crown nudged between the lips of his valve and began to slowly impale him. 

The sensation couldn't have been more different from Carapax's proboscis. Where the proboscis was thin, strong and flexible, Bombshell's spike was thick, blunt and powerful. How was it possible that it felt so much bigger than it looked? Knock Out gasped in pained pleasure and Bombshell hesitated, but Knock Out fumbled for the hand that was wrapped around his waist and gave it a squeeze.

"Keep going, frag keep going, frag yes…"

This was perfect. After denying himself for so long, having this amazing tool push inside him felt heavenly. It wasn't just thick, it was dense; its hardness and heft were wonderfully satisfying. He let his helm drop back against the supportive wall of Bombshell's chest, basking in his warmth. Bombshell's spike pushed through the first set of caliper rings inside his channel as his hips came to rest in Bombshell's lap. They both gasped as Knock Out's rings clamped down, seizing hungrily on the welcome intruder.

"Oh! Oh frag..." 

Knock Out's vocabulary had narrowed to a single word. Luckily, it was the _right_ word. Bombshell's answering chirr was half-growl.

"Ssso niccce," Bombshell murmured, running clawed hands over Knock Out's hips and belly. "Ssso tight." His razor-sharp mandibles brushed the side of Knock Out's neck, and Knock Out arched his throat, baring it for the slick proboscis that followed. He would have liked to clench and unclench his valve around Bombshell's spike, but he was stuffed too full to move. Which wasn't a bad way to be.

He was startled when a bladed hand rose to cup his jaw, tilting it upward for a kiss. Bombshell's mouth was similar to Ripscare's. It had the same bear-trap structure, with two small inner mandibles positioned on the upper jaw, and two larger ones—properly called maxillae, Knock Out now knew from having read Rangemaster's files in detail—flanking it on either side. Knock Out flashed back to his night on the balcony, and his momentary urge to kiss Ripscare. What would that have been like? Maybe this was his chance to find out. 

Leaning forward, he brushed his lips to the jagged row of teeth. They parted at his touch, revealing cavernous jaws. Bombshell's proboscis darted forward, stroking inquisitively along the seam of Knock Out's mouth. When he opened, the great helm bent to his with a low, gratified purr, and Knock Out found himself with a mouth full of proboscis. This, again, was nothing like kissing Carapax. Bombshell's proboscis was thicker, and its upper surface was covered in tiny bumps. The slight roughness felt good sliding against the inside of Knock Out's mouth, and he couldn't help but wonder how it would feel exploring a certain other orifice.

Bombshell, seeming to read his mind, curled his claws between Knock Out's thighs, easing them as far apart as they'd go. He traced the lips of Knock Out's valve, which were stretched tightly around the base of Bombshell's spike, and brushed the blunt tip of a knuckle against Knock Out's external node. Darts of pleasure rushed through Knock Out's frame. He groaned, hands rising of their own accord to cradle the deadly jaws and draw Bombshell deeper into their kiss. Bombshell responded with a delighted rumble, sliding his deliciously long proboscis in and out of Knock Out's mouth in an approximation of fragging while the clever knuckles continued to toy with his node.

Finally, Knock Out couldn't stand it anymore. He had to move, had to feel that wonderful spike sliding through his rings. As full as he was, moving was no easy matter. Even with their combined fluids, the most he could manage was a slight wriggle. Bombshell was a smart bug, though, and understood what Knock Out was asking for. He broke their kiss with soft, damp nuzzle to Knock Out's chin, then grasped Knock Out's hips and began moving their frames in counterpoint. 

It felt like too much. Too much of a stretch, too much friction. Knock Out's rings spasmed, protesting as the blunt spike rammed through them, and a bruised warmth spread through his lower belly. What if he couldn't handle this? His gaze went to Carapax—who was, he noticed, watching him intently—as he reached back and put a hand on Bombshell's hip. The giant bug stopped immediately and began to ease out. 

"Oh no, you can stay right there, big guy." Knock Out clamped down with his valve even as his hand tightened on Bombshell's hip. "Don't—don't stop, just… give me a moment." He angled his hips until the broad, blunt tip of Bombshell's spike bumped the forward wall of his valve. "That's it. Oh yeah; that's perfect."

Medically, that area was called the transfluid secretory. It was the gland where transfluid was produced and was technically part of the spike array, though the best place to access it just happened to be from within the valve. Colloquially, it was known as the sweet-spot, and Bombshell seemed to know all about it. He gave a chirr of recognition and then took command, grasping Knock Out's hips and lifting him—damn, these guys were _strong_ —while still keeping the tip of his spike nestled between Knock Out's valve-lips. Bombshell shifted his own hips, angling his thick, blunt instrument, and pushed in. _Hard._

The resulting blast of pleasure was _also_ too much, but in a completely different way. Knock Out bit back a howl as Bombshell began to maneuver him up and down on his spike, grinding against his sweet-spot with each inward stroke. It was rough, and intense, and so, _so_ good. He heard himself whimper as his rings relaxed, melding to Bombshell's contours with greater ease and pleasure now that he could move again.

"Bomb, yes, oh Primus—"

Hot liquid gushed from between his legs, drenching Bombshell's array and trickling between their thighs to soak the cloudy silk they were kneeling on. Bombshell growled his delectation. He slowed his thrusts, making them longer and more decadent. Knock Out might have gone faster if it was up to him, but it wasn't. He was suspended in Bombshell's grasp—his plaything, more or less—and it was amazing.

Bombshell was like a warm, comfortable chair that just happened to be fragging him in the most indulgent of ways. Each rock of Bombshell's hips was driving Knock Out further into ecstasy, and his growls, which formed a backdrop to Knock Out's moans, sent vibrations through his chest and belly and into Knock Out's frame. All Knock Out had to do was relax, sink into the bliss, and let his body be taken over. After battling his heat for so long, this was… well. Just what the doctor had ordered. 

Bombshell nuzzled his throat again, his roughened proboscis flicking over sensitive, exposed cables as clawed thumbs traced the outline of Knock Out's codpiece. "Can I—" Bombshell moaned as he pulled out and pushed back in. "Oh, ssso good. Pleassse… can… can I sssee your ssspike?"

Knock Out released his spike, along with a sigh of relief. His valve felt swollen inside, which meant that his sweet-spot, with all the pounding it was taking, was filling with transfluid. Uncaging his spike would give the gland some extra room in which to expand, and perhaps buy him a little time before overload became inevitable. With a pleasured growl, Bombshell wrapped his powerful claws around Knock Out's spike.

"Ssso pretty," Bombshell rasped, caressing it from root to tip. "Do not worry," he added with a lascivious lick to one of Knock Out's audials. "I will be careful." 

"I—" Knock Out's vents hitched as Bombshell's thumb swirled over the dripping head of his spike. "I know."

Under different circumstances, the sight of those claws grasping such a sensitive part of his anatomy might have made him nervous, but Bombshell knew what he was doing. He was using his claws the way Knock Out would have used his own, presenting the blunt edges as he stroked and explored. His eager touch was so firm, so confident, that it was easy to relax back into his embrace and simply… enjoy. 

Well, at least until Bombshell began to tease him by first stroking firmly up the shaft of his spike and then hovering his claw just at the very tip so that Knock Out was obliged to thrust upward into his fist. At first, he did this every few strokes, then every other stroke, his own thrusts slowing to a gentle rocking. He was getting Knock Out to take over the thrusting duties. 

Knock Out wouldn't have minded, except that Bombshell wasn't letting him go as fast as he would have liked, and found himself arching helplessly toward the gripping claws, whimpering and begging for the sweet friction they could provide while, at the same time, trying to keep Bombshell's spike inside his channel. It was the most delicious torment. He twisted around, seeking Bombshell's mouth in overwhelming gratitude. 

Bombshell's free arm curled around him, drawing him close as he bent to meet Knock Out's kiss—and a strangled whine drew their attention to the far end of the berth. Knock Out had nearly forgotten about their audience, and at first he was confused where it had come from. Would Shrapnel or Carapax really make a noise like that? But then he noticed a pair of antenna-tips poking up from behind one of Carapax's wings. 

Bombshell let out a bass chuckle. "You are fooling no one, Kick. We can all sssee you getting a load of our guessst."

There was an answering grunt, followed by a reluctant stirring. Finally, a pair of optics peered over the upper edge of Carapax's wing. "Doesn't he smell… weird?" Kickback asked.

Bombshell burrowed his snout against Knock Out's neck. "He sssmellsss… marvelousss," he said, licking and nuzzling.

"Not… Seeker-y?" Kickback's proboscis flicked out, testing the air. "Not _too_ bad," he muttered.

Carapax gave him a gentle nudge. "Why don't you go and ask Knock Out if you can smell him for yourself?" they suggested, tone warm with affection.

Kickback emerged from behind the protective wings of his two mates and crouched on the berth, gazing at Knock Out uncertainly. _Young,_ Knock Out realized. Kickback was definitely the youngest of the quartet, and now he didn't remind Knock Out of Breakdown so much as of his own younger self. Of fighting his own desires in the belief that he shouldn't want the things he wanted. He decided to make this easy for the bug. 

"It's okay," Knock Out cajoled, reaching out. Kickback's optics snapped to Knock Out's, meeting his gaze for the first time. When his expression remained wary, Knock Out added, "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone about the freaky stuff you're into."

This prompted a chitter of laughter from Bombshell. Kickback glanced sharply away, but Knock Out saw his gaze slide back to him, darting from his face to his array and then—finally—to his outstretched hand. Slowly, he crept close enough to clasp Knock Out's hand in both of his own. He sniffed it, darted his proboscis out for a quick taste, and raised his gaze to Knock Out's once more.

Bombshell released Knock Out's spike and raised his claws, now drenched in Knock Out's scent, to trace the young Bull's mouth. Kickback took another furtive taste. A low, wanting sound rose from him, and Knock Out's frame responded with a sympathetic pulse of yearning. 

Knock Out ran the fingers of his free hand along the curve of a swaying antenna. The organ quivered at his touch, then curled down to brush Knock Out's arm in tentative exploration. Bombshell's thrusts had stopped, though his grip on Knock Out's hips remained firm, as did his spike. It was as if he was waiting for the second Bull to truly join them. Perhaps the two were used to doing everything together. 

"Come here, bug," Knock Out coaxed, guiding Kickback closer. "Let's see what you've got."


	10. Scent of (a) Seeker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, go to Biting Moopie for her incredible editing assistance, and to Dark Star of Chaos for doing a last-minute proofread. I take full responsibility for any remaining mistakes.

Kickback's antennae swept forward as if to test the air around Knock Out's frame. His hands, tipped with slender clawed digits, rose to hover mid-air, claws clacking as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. Knock Out raised his chin in wordless invitation. Kickback leaned in, his proboscis darting out for a taste of Knock Out's lips before retracting back into his mouth.

"You are too cute," Knock Out murmured as he leaned in, taking care not to dislodge himself from his enviable position astride Bombshell's lap. He curled his claws beneath Kickback's jaw and felt a tremor there, a quick flutter of something that wasn't fear. "You do seem to want this," he added, trailing his lips against the fence of razor-sharp teeth that fronted Kickback's mouth. The experimental caress drew out a groan and a further clatter of digits.

"Yes…" Kickback's hands settled, lighter than butterflies, on either side of Knock Out's helm. The whip-thin proboscis emerged for another taste, and Knock Out caught traces of his own essence—put there by Bombshell—along with a heady swell of hot, green scent that could only spell desire.

"So, then… what is it?" Knock Out asked, bumping his forehelm against Kickback's in the same way Carapax had done with him. "Do you think there's something wrong with what we're doing? With wanting this? Wanting _me_?" It wouldn't be the first time. Knock Out had tangled with a few mechs who'd considered him forbidden fruit—in candy-apple red, no less—but he wanted to make sure he understood where this particular hesitation was coming from. "Is it because of my frame?"

"A little," Kickback admitted, though his hands hadn't stopped moving. His thumbs were tracing restless sweeps against Knock Out's headfins, as if he was trying to memorize their exact shape. "I've never…" he paused, glancing first at Bombshell and then over his shoulder to where Shrapnel and Carapax sat curled together at the far end of the berth "…with anyone but these guys. They… they know me, and—"

"It's okay, we have time," Knock Out assured him. He might be shameless but Kickback was not. "Why don't we start with a kiss?"

Kickback visibly relaxed. The tension drained from his arms as his hands slid down to rest on Knock Out's shoulders. The slender proboscis reappeared, flickering uncertainly along that formidable barrier of teeth, but when Knock Out cupped the narrow jaws and guided their mouths together, the hesitation melted. Kickback's proboscis slid deep, curling sweetly around Knock Out's glossa. It darted away again before Knock Out could capture it, but not before he noted its silken texture.

This was in stark contrast to Bombshell's proboscis, which was bumpy and rough. How would _this_ proboscis feel, probing his valve? Or, even better, wrapped around his spike? Damn. He was going to have _so_ much fun with these two, if he could only get Kickback past this initial shyness.

Or… _was_ it shyness?

Carapax would have stepped in by now if Kickback didn't want this, since they'd made it very clear that everyone was to give their consent. Kickback did want Knock Out, he wanted to be part of this, but he had different needs. He needed... Ah. Of course. Knock Out was guilty, once again, of having made baseless assumptions about these creatures. Why would all Bulls be dominant, merely because of their reproductive role as egg-fertilizers? Maybe Kickback needed more than Knock Out's permission. Maybe he needed for Knock Out to take the lead.

"Well Kick," Knock Out said, twining his fingers through the delicate antennae, "That was an amazing kiss. Let me show you how much I liked it." He tugged Kickback closer, using his antennae like a leash. Tilting Kickback's helm back, he leaned forward to nip at one of the cables that ran alongside the slender throat.

"Ohh…" Kickback trembled, pressing closer.

"You like that?" Knock Out grazed the cable with his fangs, drawing a tight whimper from Kickback. "You can tell me what you want," he added, trailing his claws down the sides of Kickback's throat. "You're safe with me. Same way I'm safe with you." 

"Yes… oh, yes…" Kickback arched with a wavering cry as Knock Out bit softly at his exposed neck while his hands slid lower, claws working into the sensitive gaps in Kickback's armor. Kickback's hands clenched on Knock Out's shoulders. "I want... can I touch you?"

"Oh yes. Please do."

The hands curled over his shoulder-wings, tracing their jutting curves with an air of reverence before slipping lower. Long digits molded to Knock Out's upper arms, then his elbows. Kickback dipped his helm to nuzzle Knock Out's headfins, continuing his earlier exploration with his mouth this time. He nibbled gently downward to Knock Out's throat, trailing his mandibles and proboscis along the curve of his neck.

Each caress was placed carefully, as if Kickback was an artist creating a pattern of touches, like brush-strokes, on Knock Out's frame. Knock Out was more than pleased to be his canvas. He arched back, resting his shoulders against Bombshell's warm, supportive chest as Kickback, now growing bolder, engaged his claws and proboscis in an investigation of Knock Out's shoulders and upper chest. His muzzle found its way to the deep "V" where Knock Out's chest-plates were joined, and Kickback snuffled with an air of intense focus, his ventilations sending gusts of warm air beneath Knock Out's armor. After a moment he glanced up, his proboscis flickering uncertainly.

"May I taste beneath your armor?"

"Go ahead," Knock Out said, intrigued.

Kickback's proboscis delved into a gap in his chest armor, finding the underlying protoform with ease. Knock Out shivered. He'd never been touched quite like _this_ before. The wet, silky glide against his inner structure was surprisingly intimate, stirring up delightful quivers. Kickback began to withdraw, but Knock Out captured his jaws with gentle hands.

"Why did you stop?"

Kickback gave him a quizzical look. "The way you moved," he said. "I thought you might be uncomfortable."

"That's considerate of you, but I moved that way because I _liked_ what you were doing," Knock Out explained, stroking the terrifying jaws. Kickback really _was_ too cute. Knock Out dropped a kiss between Kickback's antennae, flaring his armor invitingly as he guided Kickback's face back to his chest. "More, please."

Kickback's wing-casings rose in a long, shivering inhalation. He resumed with 'chuff' of obvious pleasure, expanding his explorations to Knock Out's midriff, shoulder-vents, and even his armpits. He sought out the places the others hadn't touched, absorbing Knock Out's scent in its purest form. Whatever he was tasting, his huffs and chirrs suggested he was pleased.

Knock Out stroked a quivering antenna. "I think you like my Seeker-scent more than you've been letting on."

"It is strange," the Bull replied.

"Strange in a good way? Or… ah!" Knock Out gasped as the questing proboscis found a sensitive spot. "Just strange?"

Bombshell snorted. "He likesss you."

"And I like… _oh."_ The wet glide beneath his armor drew out another moan. The spike within him twitched, and Knock Out spread his legs wider in response. "Oh yes. I… mmmhm. I like him very much."

Bombshell reached past Knock Out's shoulder. He settled his enormous hand over one of Knock Out's, which was resting on Kickback's chest. His massive talons flexed, scratching ever so lightly against Kickback's chestplate as he slid his hand down over the slim torso, drawing Knock Out's hand along for the ride. The ultimate destination wasn't hard to guess, and Knock Out grinned when he found his hand being molded around the heated firmness of Kickback's codpiece.

"If I didn't know better," Knock Out said, turning his head nibble at Bombshell's nearest mandible, "I'd think you were impatient to get back to fragging." Bombshell's chuckle, which was half-growl, spread seductive vibrations through Knock Out's frame as he glanced at Kickback. "What do you think, Kick?" he asked, stroking the bowed helm with his other hand. "Should we get back to fragging?"

Kickback lifted his helm. He nodded.

"Want to join us?"

The nods became frenetic.

Bombshell's hand returned to Knock Out's spike. He stroked it back to hardness with casual expertise, the blunt edges of his claws gliding deftly over the heated protoform, while his other arm snaked around Knock Out's waist. The gesture felt protective and perhaps a little possessive, too, as if he wasn't ready to relinquish his shiny prize just yet. Knock Out certainly didn't want him to. He was too enraptured by the taut glide of Bombshell's spike within his channel. 

"Okay, you'll need to wait a moment because—" Knock Out's vents hitched at the skitter of claws on his straining spike "—Bombshell is very impatient."

"Ssso good," Bombshell purred. "I could frag you forever."

"The feeling's mutual." Knock Out leaned forward to bite softly at the underside of Kickback's jaw. "What about you, Kick? Your friend here says you like me. Is that true?" 

Kickback shuddered, bucking into Knock Out's grip. "Yes…"

"And you like what I'm doing?"

"Yes, oh yes…" The answer would have been obvious even without the frantic hip-motions, or the taut heat between Kickback's legs, but Knock Out still liked hearing it.

"In that case," Knock Out said, nipping lightly at an antenna, "you may release your spike."

Kickback unsheathed with a groan. If Bombshell's spike was a cudgel, Kickback's was a rapier. It was long and elegant, like its owner, with a tapered head that reminded Knock Out of a flower stamen. "Mmm, nice," Knock Out murmured, running his hand up the proud, slender curve. "You're beautiful, you know that?"

Kickback's response was a shuddering chirr. He edged closer with a fretful rock of his hips, burrowing his face against Knock Out's shoulder. Knock Out looped an arm around Kickback's neck and matched the undersides of their spikes. He wrapped his hand around both, squeezing and stroking in a rhythm that matched Bombshell's slow thrusts. Bombshell gave a pleased rumble as he added his own grip, and they were off. Bombshell set the pace, moving slowly at first. Each of his upward thrusts drove their joined spikes through the tight ring of digits, and he rewarded each push with a swirl of his thumb over their matched crowns.

"Frag!" Knock Out heard himself gasp. "Ohhh… oh _frag_ …"

"That isss the general idea," Bombshell murmured, his rough proboscis tracing the contour of Knock Out's jaw. His thrusts quickened, and before long Knock Out was lost in a molten haze, his frame registering sensations faster than his mind was able to process. Wonderful friction was everywhere: the smooth glide of Kickback's spike against his own, the rhythmic surge of Bombshell's thick, powerful spike pounding into him. He heard himself crying out, panting and pleading with each implacable thrust. Kickback was clinging to him, claws fisted in a desperate effort not to scratch his finish, his chitters and moans forming a synergy with Bombshell's rumbling growls.

Knock Out was trapped between them, the red candy filling in their bug sandwich. There was no place in the universe he'd rather be, and if there had been a way to stretch the moment out and make it last forever, he would have done so in a spark-beat. But Bombshell's growls deepened, increasing in volume. The huge claws left his spike to grasp his hips instead, pulling him down hard while Bombshell drove his spike as deeply inside Knock Out as his length would allow.

Bombshell stiffened. A deep, wrenching groan vibrated deep in his chest, and Knock Out felt a series of pulsations as the big bug began to unload. It didn't feel like ordinary transfluid. It was thicker and hotter, like an explosion of lava, and there was so _much._ It flooded his channel, spilling wetness between his legs, and it kept on coming as the heavy spike throbbed again, and again.

The heated tide pushed Knock Out to his own peak. He heard himself howl, fingers clenching almost cruelly around his and Kickback's joined spikes as thick jets of fluid spurted from him, splattering his own belly and Kickback's alike. He sobbed helpless curses as his frame bent back in a shuddering arch and he hung suspended, immersed in the dual sensation of being filled and finding release. When his body gave out, powerful arms caught him.

He sagged back against Bombshell's chest. Bombshell's growls had softened into purrs. "Ssso good," Bombshell murmured, nuzzling his helm. "Ssso sssatisfying."

Knock Out tried to respond, but nothing emerged but a whimper. The warmth inside his channel had become a pulsation of its own. Something in his belly shifted, and after a moment, he realized what it was. _Of course._ His ceiling node was starting to relax, exactly as the Rangemaster files had indicated. He hadn't expected it to feel quite this… physical, though. Or this pleasurable.

"Feels… like I'm melting inside," he said when he found his voice. A large hand curled over his belly, adding external warmth to match that which was coming from within.

"That'sss alssso good," Bombshell said, his proboscis flicking little kisses across Knock Out's neck and shoulders. "Isss how it should feel. Meansss it isss getting you ready for Ssshrapnel."

Knock Out glanced reflexively at the Insecticon Queen. He was still curled around Carapax, who lay with their head on his chest, stroking his egg-sac with the tip of one tentacle. His outstretched wings formed a protective roof over the two of them, and he looked… absolutely massive. How big _was_ that ovipositor, anyway?

A whimper diverted Knock Out's attention back to Kickback. The younger Bull was gripping his spike in one hand in a valiant effort to stop his own overload while his other hand toyed with the splatter of transfluid on his belly. He raised trembling digits to his mouth and darted his proboscis out for a taste, his whimpers growing louder and more desperate.

"I think my friend Kick isss ready for you," Bombshell murmured with a chitter of amusement, "if you are ready for him."

Knock Out managed a nod. Strong hands gripped his flanks, guiding him to kneel astride Kickback's lap. Bombshell stayed right with him, not pulling out until the very last moment. Knock Out could easily guess why. He clenched his valve as Bombshell withdrew, wanting to keep as much of the transfluid inside as he possibly could, but only a thin trickle of the hot fluid escaped.

"It hasss thickened," Bombshell explained, sounding pleased. "I wasss not sssure how it would react with your frame, but it ssseems you are compatible with usss."

"Good to know," Knock Out said, with another glance at the Queen. Noticing that Carapax was watching him again, he turned his attention to Kickback. He wanted to make this good for Kickback—and, as an added bonus, get as much of that compatible transfluid into himself as possible. Moving carefully, he settled the entrance of his valve at the very tip of the young Bull's spike. Kickback groaned, his hips already shifting into action, but Knock Out drew himself just beyond reach.

"Not so fast," Knock Out said, putting a hand on Kickback's chest. "We're going to slow things down a bit."

He pushed. Kickback lay down without protest, and Knock Out straddled his wiry form. Kickback was so narrow that Knock Out found, to his delight, that he could clamp his thighs together and trap Kickback's spike between them. Kickback groaned, hips arching off the berth as he tried to reach Knock Out's entrance, but Knock Out stilled him with another push to his chest.

"Lie still," he ordered. "I'm taking over for a bit."

Kickback practically melted, and it was—really _was_ —the sweetest thing. Kickback might be the smaller of the two Bulls, but he was still huge. Still capable of ripping Knock Out in two without even trying, and yet… here he was. Stretched beneath him, willingly vulnerable to whatever Knock Out had in mind.

"That's better," Knock Out said, leaning down to brush a kiss to the narrow jaws. "You're being very good. And you know, I do _reward_ good behavior." He rocked downward, gliding his valve against the tip of Kickback's spike. Kickback muffled a gasp, his claws sinking into the cloud-berth as he fought to keep himself still.

"Very good." Knock Out rolled his hips in a slow, undulating wave, sliding the narrow glans back and forth between his dripping folds. His external node, swollen to twice its usual size, fit snugly into the sensitive notch at the base of Kickback's crown. The slick contact sent a burst of electric tingles through Knock Out's lower body. Kickback shuddered beneath him, stifling another cry. 

Knock Out kissed him again. He couldn't help himself. "I'm going to take good care of you," he said, hands rising to play with his sensitive antennae. As he straightened again, his gaze met Carapax's. Their expression was unreadable, of course, but something behind their gaze made him feel warm. They were pleased, he realized. Pleased that he was giving to Kickback.

Reaching back, Knock Out dipped a hand between Kickback's slender thighs to trace the lips of his valve. From his reading, he knew that Bulls lacked gestational tanks. Instead, their interface arrays were adapted for producing transfluid—lots of it. As a result, a Bull's transfluid secretory extended well into his or her valve, which meant that it _should_ be easily accessible by… ahh.

Kickback's whimper told him everything he needed to know. Knock Out curled two of his fingers and ground the knuckles against Kickback's dripping entrance, watching and listening for his lover's reaction. He wouldn't be able to go inside, since he didn't have a sheath handy with which to blunt his claws, but it looked like he wouldn't need one.

He could already feel the buildup of fluid. The damp, silken folds had bulged outward, stretching to accommodate the secretory as it filled. To have a valve that was _all_ sweet-spot, Knock Out thought. What must that be like? Pretty amazing, he guessed, judging by Kickback's response. He'd parted his legs as wide as they'd go, and was panting in a sort of controlled desperation as he ground against Knock Out's knuckles.

Moving with utmost care, he eased down onto Kickback's spike, sighing as it slid into him. _Best of both worlds,_ he thought as the slender tip nudged through the caliper rings inside his valve. This spike didn't stretch him the way Bombshell's had, but it had no trouble reaching the top of his channel. He shivered as it pressed against his ceiling node, unfurling pleasure throughout his lower frame. He loved it when a berthmate could hit that deeper place. This was going to be a treat for both of them.

"I'm going to milk you dry," he said. "Think you'd like that?"

Kickback's response was a stuttering chirr, accompanied by a beseeching writhe which Knock Out took to be very much an affirmative. Still reaching behind himself, he ran his curled knuckles to the apex of Kickback's valve. His external node was stiff and long, almost a mini-spike in its own right. Knock Out clasped it between his fingers and gave it a light squeeze before sliding his knuckles back down to Kickback's entrance.

"You've been very good," he said, "but you need to be patient a little longer. Think you can do that?"

"How much longer?" Kickback had begun to tremble with the effort of holding himself still.

"Not long," Knock Out murmured, giving the mini-spike another gentle tweak, "but I'm selfish. I want to touch you. Tease you. Make you feel as good as I feel right now."

As he spoke, he began to tighten the rings within his channel, squeezing and releasing in a slow wave as he continued to massage Kickback's remarkable valve. The rapier-spike began to swell, its tip nudging his ceiling node more urgently now. Knock Out smiled. This was going to be a short ride no matter what, but pleasuring the young Bull was a pleasure in itself. "Okay," he whispered, taking pity on Kickback at last. "You can move."

Kickback needed no further encouragement. He bucked, thrusting hard against the top of Knock Out's channel. Knock Out tried to match his rhythm, but it was too fast, too hard, too erratic. Strong claws took hold of his waist, and then Kickback was pulling him down on his spike, his short, quick thrusts hitting Knock Out's ceiling node. It was like sitting on a jackhammer. Or, at least, what Knock Out imagined that might be like, since he'd never actually tried it. Kickback's pounding was wild and rapid, his accompanying cries unrestrained.

Delicious heat swelled in Knock Out's belly, somewhere in the vicinity of his ceiling node. It felt like an inner sunrise, spreading rays of warmth throughout his frame, and this time, he wasn't aware of crossing into overload. He simply _was_ his overload, his frame seeming to fly apart into a mist of overheated particles which reassembled themselves into ferocious, tectonic convulsions as his rings clenched and Kickback, with a shattered whine, pumped him full of thick, hot fluid. He kept thrusting until he had no more to give, and sagged back limply on the berth.

Knock Out slumped forward, letting his helm drop to Kickback's shoulder. The room was spinning gently, and he felt so _good._ Kickback was still inside him, the rapier-spike barely softening, and Knock Out had every intention of keeping him where he was for as long as possible. Dimly, he was aware of clawed hands stroking his back. Bombshell gave Knock Out's wheel-mounts a gentle nuzzle, then bent to press his forehelm to Kickback's. After a moment, Kickback's antennae rose weakly to twine with Bombshell's. Bombshell responded with a soft chirr, the three of them fell silent again, drifting in the stillness that followed the intensity of their fragging.

It was Knock Out who finally stirred. Perhaps it was the growing discomfort of having Bombshell's weight on his backstrut, or the slight cramping in his legs from having them locked around Kickback's sides, or perhaps it was the faint, but growing certainty that he was being watched. When he glanced up, his gaze went straight to Shrapnel's.

The Insecticon Queen hadn't moved. He was still curled behind Carapax, his arms wrapped around his smaller mate. _He's beautiful_ , Knock Out thought, surprised. They both were. Beautiful together, and very much a pair. Just as the two Bulls were. Knock Out's spark clenched. They all belonged, the four of them. It seemed miraculous that they had found one another. Love, he thought. So fragile, and so precious. A tentacle extended to him, gliding against his cheek with infinite gentleness. 

_Do you still wish this?_ Carapax whispered, within his mind.

Knock Out closed his optics, leaning into the caress. He rubbed against the tentacle and smiled. He could feel the spreading warmth inside as the fresh infusion of transfluid worked its magic, opening him for what would come next. Aloud, he asked, "What do I need to do?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this update! I'm going to New York for a week, so the next update may take a little longer, unfortunately - but guess what? There is now FANART for this story! Yes!! Head on over to Chapter 2 to check it out (it's SFW), and be sure to tell Plugs, the artist who generously contributed it, how awesome it is. (It really is awesome, too.)


	11. Host With the Most

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggs, at last!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my intrepid editor, Biting Moopie, for her many insightful comments and suggestions. <3

_This is it,_ Knock Out thought, watching as Shrapnel uncurled himself from behind Carapax. This was about to become the point of no return. He checked himself for signs of panic. Elevated spark-rate? Check. Tension singing through his internal muscle-cables as his body prepared him to fight or flee? Oh yes, most definitely. But there was more, too. An undeniable bloom of heat in his chest and lower belly as he watched the Insecticon Queen creep across the berth toward him.

Shrapnel had hunkered low, tucking his wings back as if he was trying to make himself look less intimidating. The effort, while appreciated, was pointless. If Carapax was twice Knock Out's size, their mate was all the more impressive. Even kneeling, he towered over Knock Out, and the pincer-prongs that topped his shoulders like a set of antlers only enhanced the impression of size. Flickers of blue lighting danced around the tips of the prongs as Shrapnel raked his gaze over Knock Out's frame.

"I have enjoyed watching-watching," Shrapnel murmured, coming to a halt before him. "Host Knock Out, you looked beautiful making love with the others-others."

His egg-sac was so distended that it swung back and forth beneath his frame, nearly brushing the berth. Knock Out glimpsed round shapes bulging through the taut protoform. His mouth went dry, a pulse of unreasoning _want_ racing through his frame. Hadn't he dreamed of this? Well, not quite _this,_ not exactly, but he and Breakdown had always wanted sparklings. If this was as close as he'd ever get to carrying sparklings of his own, he'd take it. 

And… be taken _by_ it, he mentally added, his gaze traveling to the Queen's bulging codpiece. Shrapnel was no longer even trying to keep the panel closed and the ovipositor was poking out, its beveled tip glistened enticingly in the dim lighting. 

"You don't look so bad yourself," Knock Out replied. He was still astride Kickback, holding the young Bull's rapier-spike deep within his channel while Bombshell, kneeling behind Knock Out, rubbed his palm against Knock Out's belly in slow, circular caresses. Knock Out bent, brushing a kiss against Kickback's jaws, then twisted around to kiss Bombshell, too. "Thanks, guys," he whispered. "I think I'm ready. Help me out?"

Bombshell threaded an arm around Knock Out's waist and lifted him, smoothly and carefully, off Kickback's spike. Knock Out clenched his valve, but couldn't keep a gush of hot fluid from spilling down his inner thigh. It wasn't as much as Knock Out might have expected, considering how much transfluid the Bulls had pumped into him, though he regretted losing even a drop.

"I'll need a top-up later," he said, remembering that the newly implanted eggs would need a steady supply of transfluid in order to develop.

"No problem," Bombshell replied with a lusty rattle of wing-casings. "We are at your ssservice, Hossst Knock Out."

"Oh, I'll bet," Knock Out said, shooting him a grin over his shoulder as he finished disentangling himself. His gaze returned to the Queen. "Guess it's just you and me now," he said, edging towards the massive, crouching form. Surprising himself with his own boldness, he reached out and put a hand to the center of Shrapnel's chest. The spark beneath his palm fluttered and he felt a corresponding release of tension in the big frame, as if Knock Out's touch had confirmed something for him. 

"Not _just_ you and me-me," Shrapnel replied, his powerful arms now curving around Knock Out's frame to gather him close. "Unless, of course, that is what you prefer-prefer."

"I'm… hmm… pretty open," Knock Out replied, as if _that_ wasn't perfectly evident. Shrapnel's mandibles were tracing the curves of his shoulders, while huge, clawed hands framed the small of his back. "What do you have in mind?"

A pair of tentacles slipped around him from behind, looping beneath his arms. "We would all like to make love to you," Carapax said with a chirr, drawing him back to lean against their slim, powerful chest. "Would you like that, Knock Out?"

"I have a feeling I'll like it very much," Knock Out replied, relaxing into their combined embrace. He'd had many lovers over the course of his life, but only rarely had he felt this cherished. 

Carapax purred as they drew him back further still, clawed arms lifting him effortlessly. Shrapnel's hands slid down over Knock Out's hips to grasp his thighs. For a moment he hung between the two, helplessly suspended in their sure grip. Then he was being lowered onto the silk berth, his helm coming to rest in Carapax's lap. Carapax's tentacles slid around Knock Out's hips, the tips dancing teasingly over his exposed array before Carapax slipped both tentacles down to wrap snugly around his thighs. The sinuous appendages tightened their grip, drawing his legs up and apart.

Knock Out was now fully exposed, his dripping valve held wide to the cool air and to Shrapnel's appraising glance. The Insecticon Queen loomed over him, as dark and menacing as a storm. His frame-heat beat down with furnace-like intensity as he bent and pressed his forehelm to Knock Out's in a now-familiar gesture of greeting. The bulbous sac, heavy with eggs, came to rest between Knock Out's thighs.

"Welcome to the Hive-Hive," Shrapnel said, his mandibles brushing Knock Out's face. "May I lavish you with a proper reception-reception?"

"Please do." Knock Out wasn't sure what such a reception would entail, but he couldn't wait to find out.

The mandibles trailed downward, tracing Knock Out's throat, the arch of his chest and then down to his belly. Shrapnel paused to nuzzle Knock Out's spike, which happily twitched back to life. Shrapnel hummed appreciatively—and sucked it into his mouth. Knock Out gasped. Not only because the sight of his organ sliding into that fanged maw was the stuff of nightmares, which it was, but also because Shrapnel's throat was so… so…

"Ohh," he heard himself groan. "Oh, ohhhh…!" 

Beyond that intimidating row of teeth, Shrapnel's mouth was silken heat, wet and clinging, his jaws and proboscis molding to Knock Out's contours with expert precision. He began to suck, drawing Knock Out's length in as far as it would go, then releasing, then drawing him back again, chirring with pleasure the entire time. When Knock Out found his senses, he reached down to trace the great jaws, then the underside of Shrapnel's neck. He could feel the cables tightening and releasing in a maddening rhythm, heat building in his groin as each expert suck pulled him closer and closer to—

Shrapnel's proboscis coiled around the base of his spike and clamped down, _hard_. It didn't hurt, but Knock Out couldn't suppress a panicked squeak as images of bitten-off spikes swirled through his mind. A warm, silvery presence inserted itself and Carapax chittered something that must have been directed at Shrapnel, because the Queen immediately withdrew.

"We should have warned you about the squeeze," Carapax said, nuzzling Knock Out's helm. "Are you all right?"

Knock Out huffed a weak laugh. "Oh, I'm fine, I'm just…" he paused, feeling ridiculous. Pinching the transfluid channels at the base of the spike was a reasonably well-known means by which to delay a spike overload, yet somehow, he hadn't expected the bugs to know about it. Was he still, even now, thinking of them as primitive? And even if they were, did that make them unsophisticated? Surely not. "I've never gotten it on with royalty before," he finished, giving Shrapnel's jaw an apologetic pat.

Shrapnel leaned into his touch. "It is what Carapax likes-likes," he said with a rumble of humor. "To have a full transfluid secretory when the eggs go in-in."

"You will like it too," Carapax assured him. "It takes the pleasure to new heights."

"Oh yes," Knock Out agreed, unable to keep himself from squirming at the mere thought of the eggs sliding against his sweet-spot. "I'm sure I'll like it very much."

Shrapnel's jaws stretched in a wicked smile. He slipped his claws beneath Knock Out's hips, tilting them up toward his mouth. His proboscis—sleek and silver-gray—darted out and slowly, with great care, traced the outline of Knock Out's valve. Knock Out groaned, straining toward the touch as much as Carapax's binding tentacles would allow, and choked on a whimper when the narrow tip traced his budding node. 

The upper surface of Shrapnel's proboscis had a slight roughness, while the underside was slick as glass. He plied both to wonderful effect, alternating his attentions between Knock Out's external node, which he coaxed to a tight, throbbing peak, and Knock Out's hungry entrance, which he tantalized with light swirls and shallow inward thrusts that soon had Knock Out writhing. 

"Please… oh, please, more," he heard himself moan, his hips bucking in a vain effort to get more of the Queen's proboscis into himself. By the time Shrapnel finally breached his channel, he was sobbing—whether with anguish or relief, he couldn't tell. Shrapnel went right to his sweet-spot, palpating it in much the way a farmer might squeeze a fruit to test its ripeness. The proboscis withdrew.

"Very full-full," Shrapnel reported over Knock Out's whine of protest. His proboscis swept over the jagged row of teeth, licking up Knock Out's juices. "Very nice-nice. Let me see, now, if you are ready for my eggs-eggs."

This time, when the proboscis delved back into Knock Out, it plunged straight to the apex of his channel. The rough-slick tip circled his ceiling node, pushed into it and wriggled—hard. Knock Out gasped. It was like having a fish trapped inside him. The sensation was both hilarious and incredible, and he didn't know whether to laugh or scream. The proboscis gave a firm push, and Knock Out felt an easing within, as if something had yielded. 

Something had.

On a purely anatomical level, Knock Out understood exactly what Shrapnel was doing. He was testing Knock Out's ceiling node to see how flexible it had become under the tender ministrations of the two Bulls. Even knowing that, nothing could have prepared Knock Out for the feeling of the proboscis sliding into his _inner_ channel, the narrow passage that led to his gestational tank. No one, and no thing, had ever probed so deeply inside him, and the sensation was entirely new.

Shrapnel's proboscis was pushing deeper with every stroke, drilling into Knock Out's innermost core. The slight roughness felt exquisite as it abraded his untouched inner walls, kindling a sweet ache that spiraled outward from his gestational tank to encompass his entire frame. He was melting open under Shrapnel's gentle, insistent thrusts, his channel gripping rhythmically to pull Shrapnel deeper. Any moment now, Shrapnel would breach his tank—or, if Shrapnel continued this much longer, his proboscis might snake its way all the way through Knock Out and emerge from his throat. 

Knock Out thought he wouldn't mind that. At all. He never wanted this to end, and when Shrapnel did finally withdraw, his face dripping with fluid, Knock Out nearly wept at the loss. His body felt empty now, in a way that he'd never quite noticed. It felt hungry, aching to be filled to its very marrow—and where had _that_ come from? Had he always felt this way and never noticed?

Shrapnel draped himself over Knock Out, his heavy egg-sac sliding against Knock Out's belly. The protoform was slick now, bathed in Knock Out's juices, and the damp, silken weight felt lovely against his sensitized frame as he gazed up into Shrapnel's face. The Queen was studying him with a calm, thoughtful expression that struck Knock Out as tender.

"I am going to implant you now-now," Shrapnel said, his tone gentle.

"Please." Knock Out's voice was a ragged ghost of itself.

Shrapnel kissed him. It was the lightest of kisses, a mere brush of those savage jaws against his parted lips. His mouth-parts were slick and wet, redolent with Knock Out's own scent mingled with that of the Bulls'. The sweet proboscis trailed after, delicately scraping Knock Out's lips. The big helm bowed to his, and Shrapnel rocked back onto his haunches, thrusting his hips forward to give Knock Out an unobstructed view of his codpiece. The panel slipped aside, and the ovipositor released with a soft hiss.

Knock Out caught his vents. The ovipositor looked like Rangemaster's diagram, only… better. Not that Rangemaster's drawings had lacked for accuracy, but they couldn't capture the organ's sheer physical _presence_. It was a spike, but not like any Knock Out had ever seen. It was nearly as long as his forearm and, at the base, nearly as thick. Of course it _had_ to be that long in order to breach his tank, but it still looked… well, challenging. Not that Knock Out wasn't up for a challenge.

"Can I touch?" Knock Out asked, already reaching for it. He knew how he must sound, breathless and over-eager, like a sparkling reaching for a new toy. Shrapnel responded with a huff of amusement and rocked forward, pressing the bevel-tip into Knock Out's hand. Knock Out curled his fingers around it, running his thumb over the narrow head. It was slick with the same amber fluid Knock Out had noticed the first time he'd examined Shrapnel, and he couldn't resist bringing his hand to his mouth for a quick taste. 

The fluid was sweet, much like the honey, and it warmed Knock Out's lips in the same way the Bulls' transfluid had done. Relaxants, then. The ovipositor was perfectly designed for its function, and was also remarkably beautiful. Eagerly, Knock Out returned both hands to the proud organ, stroking it from root to tip. Shrapnel growled and pressed into his touch, clearly enjoying himself. His shaft had a firm inner core sheathed in sleek protoform, which slipped and glided beneath Knock Out's hands like a layer of hot silk. The dilation-rings, nestled just below the spike-head, shifted at Knock Out's touch. 

"Squeeze-squeeze," Shrapnel instructed, pushing against Knock Out's hand. 

Knock Out complied, giving the rings a light squeeze. They expanded against Knock Out's palm, forcing his hand to open, and Shrapnel thrust forward, driving the gleaming tip of his ovipositor through the rings. This, Knock Out realized, was what was about to happen inside him. The rings would force his inner channel open, and hold it that way while Shrapnel pumped him full of eggs. He shivered, wondering if it was about time he started getting nervous.

The silvery presence returned, swirling against his thoughts. "This is up to you," Carapax reminded gently. "You do not have to go through with it."

Oh, but Knock Out wanted to. He wanted it for reasons he couldn't even name, or perhaps didn't dare. He wanted to be part of this world, even if it was only temporary. He wanted an end to the hunger and emptiness. He wanted to be stuffed full. He wanted to soak up the love here, drench himself in it like sunlight. He wanted…

"Thanks," he said, giving one of Carapax's tentacles a squeeze, "but I'm ready. Whenever you are," he added with a glance at the Queen, who was very _evidently_ ready. His egg-sac had drawn up tight against the base of his ovipositor, the round bulges of eggs standing out clearly through the silken membrane. He was visibly quivering with the effort of holding himself back. Knock Out grasped Shrapnel's hips. "Come."

That single word was all it took. Shrapnel aligned himself and entered Knock Out with a long, smooth thrust. Knock Out felt the bevel-shaped tip graze his sweet-spot, then slide through his gauntlet of caliper-rings to reach the apex of his channel. There was a nudge to his ceiling node, followed by a pinch. Knock Out couldn't feel the individual dilator-rings expand; it was a growing pressure that flared sharply into pain. Knock Out gasped. Shrapnel began to ease back, but Knock Out caught his shoulder. 

"It's… it's okay, just give me a moment," Knock Out said, though privately, he was experiencing his first wave of real fear. This wasn't the same as Shrapnel's proboscis. This was being prised open, stretched from within. Could he _actually_ do this? Physically?

The ceiling node was, of course, extremely strong and flexible. It had to pucker up firm and tight in order to provide a snug, secure environment for a growing egg or sparkling, and stretch wide in order to give birth. Shrapnel's eggs were far smaller than a Seeker's would be—so why did this hurt so much?

A silver claw found his hand. "The pain is temporary," Carapax murmured as Knock Out clamped his fingers around the fearsome appendage, gripping it like a lifeline. "Do not fight it. Breathe with me, and let it exist, as you do."

Carapax set up a slow rhythm of ventilations, telling him to contract on his exvent, then expand as he drew air back into himself. Knock Out did his best to follow. At first he was painfully aware of the rings stretching him farther open with each expansion, but the pain gradually gave way to tingling warmth, then heat, and then—pop! Shrapnel lurched against him with a groan as his ovipositor slid right through into Knock Out's gestational tank.

Knock Out had absolutely no doubt that that was what had happened, though he hadn't expected it to feel like this. His hips were locked, held rigidly in place by the thick, powerful shaft that had pierced his core. He couldn't have moved, even if he'd wanted to. It might have been the most terrifying thing he'd ever experienced, or the most incredible. He'd have to sort that out later. For now, Carapax and Shrapnel were both nuzzling and soothing him, chirring sweetly. Knock Out let himself relax. He was in expert hands here. Or… claws, he thought giddily. Or tentacles. But then the tentacles that were holding his legs apart began to withdraw. 

"No, wait," Knock Out began to protest. "You don't have to—"

"It is time-time," Shrapnel said, snaking his long arms around Knock Out's frame. Knock Out was about to ask what it was time _for_ , but he felt himself being lifted, held snug against Shrapnel's powerful chest as the Queen rolled them both over. Knock Out found himself astride Shrapnel's hips, still firmly skewered by the ovipositor. 

"He likes to watch," Carapax said as they curled behind Knock Out, winding their powerful claws around his chest. 

"Yes… yes," Shrapnel agreed with a rasping sigh. His gaze traveled Knock Out's frame, from his stretched, dripping valve up to helm and back again. His enormous hands shaped themselves to Knock Out's flanks, thumb-claws tracing circles on his belly right above where, Knock Out knew, the ovipositor was lodged. "We will make this very good for you-you." His gaze flicked past Knock Out, to the far end of the berth. "Bulls, attend Knock Out-Knock Out."

There was a scuttle from behind, and Bombshell plastered himself against Knock Out's side. "What isss your pleasssure?" he asked, claws already reaching for Knock Out's chest. 

"You are both too impatient," said Carapax, batting the claws back with a flick of a tentacle. "Do you wish for Bombshell and Kickback to join us?" they asked Knock Out.

"Of course," Knock Out said, clasping Bombshell's claw in welcome. He glanced around to see where Kickback was, and spotted him hunched behind one of Carapax's wings. "C'mere, bug," Knock Out said, reaching out to him. When Kickback accepted the offered hand, Knock Out reeled him in and tipped his helm to the side, inviting a kiss. Kickback opened his mouth with a happy whimper, and as Knock Out leaned forward to complete the kiss, he felt his spark pulse with a warm, expansive feeling that could only really be… love? 

Not love as he'd known it with Breakdown. Not the love of a mate, perhaps, but it was still love, and it felt… like something sweet and ungraspable, like the tiny footsteps of a butterfly on his plating. A welcome stranger who could never be his, but the beauty of the moment was all the sweeter because of it. When the kiss released him, he turned to offer the same to Bombshell, who acceded with an eager grunt and an enthusiastic delving of his proboscis into Knock Out's mouth. 

Carapax's tentacles curled around both the Bulls, flaring silver wings over all three of them. "Are you all ready?" 

The Bulls replied with soft noises of assent. Knock Out was about to ask what they were all supposed to be ready _for_ , but then Carapax and the Bulls began to move together.

"Oh," Knock Out said. "Oh… frag."

His three lovers were working him in unison, effortlessly raising and lowering him on Shrapnel's shaft. It felt _so_ good. The inner stretch remained constant, which told Knock Out that the dilation-rings were still firmly anchored in his ceiling node, but the ovipositor's tip was sliding up and down within his sheath, creating a magical, silken glide. He relaxed into the warm cradle of arms and tentacles, using his valve to lazily grip and release Shrapnel's staff as he rode it up and down. This was the most delicious thing he'd never imagined possible, and he wanted to soak up every last sensation.

"You are doing so well," Carapax murmured, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek.

Knock Out returned the nuzzle. "Just call me… ahh… the Host with the most," he said, trailing a kiss against silvery jaws. "Mmhm," he added with a laugh. "Most _spoiled_ Host, anyway."

Carapax responded with a laugh. "Dear one, we are pleasured by pleasuring you." They kissed him sweetly, and Knock Out opened for it, loving the slide of the slick proboscis into his mouth and the way it mirrored the glide of the ovipositor within his channel. He felt so good, so pampered and so full, already, that it was easy to lose himself in the sheer bliss of it all. But Shrapnel was starting to arch and groan, no longer watching Knock Out ride but instead bucking into him, his chest arching with each stroke and his great helm thrashing from side to side. 

Suddenly, with a strangled moan, he grasped Knock Out's hips and jerked down, sheathing himself fully inside Knock Out's channel. The base of the ovipositor pulsed—once, twice—and something large and round bulged against Knock Out's entrance. 

Knock Out gasped. The egg seemed much larger to him now than it had earlier when he'd examined Shrapnel's sac. That was always the thing with medicine, he thought. There was the theory of a thing, or a procedure, and then there was the actuality. 

Bombshell wedged himself against Knock Out's side and slid a pair of clawed fingers between Knock Out's legs, cradling the lips of his valve where they stretched around the base of the ovipositor and, now, the egg. "Ohhh yesss," he chirred, nimbly massaging Knock Out's folds. "Ssso good. Ssso niccce. I love to feel them ssslide in."

Antennae bobbing and quivering in his eagerness, Bombshell angled his hand so that one of his palm-pads pressed against Knock Out's external node. He rotated his hand, rubbing the aching peak in slow, relentless circles until Knock Out came with a shout and the egg popped through his entrance. 

Bombshell chuffed with delight. "You are sssooo juicccy," he said as he continued to massage Knock Out's bulging valve-lips, coaxing the egg deeper. "I want to tassste you later," he added, dragging his rough proboscis suggestively against Knock Out's throat. "When it is my turn again, I want to fuck you with my probossscisss. May I?"

Knock Out leaned into the sandpaper caress. "Oh, hell yes. You can fuck me with… ah!" He gasped as the egg slid deeper, stretching the walls of his channel. He was still coming down from the overload Bombshell had given him a moment earlier, and a new one was building already. "With anything you've got," he finished, clenching his valve around the egg to test its girth. 

The silken sheath that surrounded Shrapnel's ovipositor began to expand and contract, pushing the egg upward in short, rhythmic pulses. Knock Out felt the egg-sac expand and contract in the same rhythm, and the base of Shrapnel's shaft bulged as a second egg popped through.

Bombshell groaned with happiness as this new addition slid between his fingers. He massaged Knock Out's valve to ease the egg's passage into his channel, but the first egg was at Knock Out's full, swollen sweet-spot. A spark of incandescent bliss kindled as the ovipositor's relentless pulsations coaxed up swells of liquid heat. 

Shrapnel stiffened suddenly, his claws tightening almost cruelly at Knock Out's hips. His body arched off the berth, driving the ovipositor deeper and forcing the egg past Knock Out's sweet-spot. There was a momentary sense of loss, but it faded as Knock Out's caliper rings stretched to accommodate the spherical intruder—and then it was at his ceiling node.

Knock Out stopped moving. He even stopped ventilating as his entire awareness spiraled down to his gestational tank. Shrapnel had stopped moving too. He'd gone rigid, as if tensing for some monumental final effort. It occurred to Knock Out that this might be painful for him, too. He reached between his legs to massage the egg-sac, hoping that would make this easier for the Queen. 

Knock Out's hand encountered Kickback's. He glanced up to meet the younger Bull's gaze, and without a word, they set about squeezing the egg-sac together, instinctively matching their rhythm to Shrapnel's natural pulsations. 

That did it. The base of the ovipositor swelled and a third egg popped through, eliciting another pleased chortle from Bombshell. It slid into Knock Out's body far more smoothly than the first two had, jostling the second one and driving them both deeper. Knock Out groaned as the double burden of eggs rode his sweet-spot, butting against it with delicious intensity as a fourth egg pushed into his channel, and the first one—the one that had been kissing his ceiling node—squeezed its way through his innermost channel and breached his tank.

Knock Out came. At least… he thought he did, though it wasn't like any other overload he'd ever experienced. It wasn't a rush, nor an explosion, nor were there any sudden fireworks. It was more like… falling, very slowly, into a pool of steaming honey. There was a sense of opening, of being opened into a space that felt infinite, yet remained encapsulated inside his own frame. Inside his own belly. 

He felt the soft, muffled impact as the egg struck the inner wall of his tank. The tank was flexible, of course, designed to absorb such impacts, but Knock Out tightened his hips instinctively, wanting to keep the little one safe in its new home. 

Shrapnel, on the other hand, was writhing and bucking beneath him, his helm thrashing from side to side. A gush of liquid heat erupted somewhere deep inside Knock Out's channel as more eggs crowded into the base of the shaft, too many and too close together for Knock Out to be sure how many there were.

"Ohhhh Primus," Knock Out said. It wasn't a name he invoked often, but if ever a situation had called for it… he reached to stroke the swelling bulge of eggs, all jostling to be inside him at once. "One at a time, kids," he chided. 

Bombshell laughed. He was pressed close against Knock Out's side, his huge hand cupping the egg-bulge and stroking them avidly as they popped, one by one, into the shaft of the ovipositor. Kickback was glued to Knock Out's other side, his hand now roaming expectantly over Knock Out's belly, and Carapax… oh, Carapax was gone, Knock Out realized when he glanced over at them. The triangular mantis-head was thrown back, mouth stretched open in a wordless cry as spasms, matching Shrapnel's, wracked their slender frame. 

Knock Out's spark throbbed again with that strange, expansive warmth that he'd felt earlier. _So beautiful_ , he thought. Maybe love _was_ a many-splendored—or at least multi-legged—thing. Maybe he'd been wrong about… well, pretty much everything. His last thought, before spiraling into ecstasy, was that he'd have to find a way to explain that to First Aid.

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

The cloud-berth was soft beneath Knock Out, cradling his sore frame. Four warm bodies were snuggled against his, surrounding him in warmth and rhythmic chirrs of contentment. Curious hands, including his own, had found their way to his belly. He'd lost track of the number of eggs Shrapnel had pumped into him. The insertions had blurred into one another in much the way his overloads had, becoming one long, oceanic climax. But there were many. Anyone could see that by the distension of his belly armor, which had expanded to make room for an increasingly packed gestational tank.

Fortunately, it wouldn't last. Knock Out knew, from having read Rangemaster's files, that the eggs were encased in a thick layer of gelatinous energon. This served to cushion them inside the egg-sac, and protected them during the implantation process. Now that they were comfortably sheltered in the warm, protected environment of Knock Out's tank, the gelatinous coating would dissolve. It would be absorbed by his frame, flooding his system with nutrients, hormones and energy that would help his body adjust to its new role, and his belly would—at least temporarily—return to its normal size. 

For now, though, he had a preview of what he'd look like in the latter stages of carrying. Knock Out cradled the bulge with both hands, loving its roundness. He imagined he could feel each of the eggs stretching the walls of his tank, their precious burden filling him with warmth and life. It was remarkably satisfying, in a way that he wouldn't have expected. 

"Thank you," he heard himself say, meaning it from the bottom of his spark. 

His lovers pressed closer and Knock Out drifted, basking in their warmth, their slow caresses, and the blissful sense of fullness. He wasn't sure how long the five of them lay tangled like that. He had no thoughts of tomorrow; of the patients he'd have to see or the front of normality he'd have to erect in order to preserve the delicious secret growing inside him. He'd escaped time, it seemed, at least… for now. When Bombshell put a hand to his belly and asked if he was ready for that top-up, Knock Out's reply was unequivocal.

" _So_ ready," Knock Out said as Bombshell eased between his thighs and, moving carefully, lifted Knock Out's legs to rest on his shoulders. Knock Out caught a brief glimpse of his giant cudgel-spike, which was already stiff and leaking honeyed fluid, before Bombshell's helm delved between his legs, disappearing behind the curve of Knock Out's gravid belly. A rough proboscis-tip traced the throbbing folds of his valve, and Knock Out sighed in delight.

This didn't have to be over, Knock Out told himself as the proboscis delved into him, filling his channel to the hilt. At least, not just yet.

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

END PART ONE

`o._.o' `o._.o' `o._.o'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, at the end of what I've decided will be Part One of the story. Do not fear, there is much, _much_ more to come! I do need to take a break to focus on Nanowrimo and finish off one of my other WIPs, though, so if you're enjoying this story, you might also check out [_The Disarming_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15022853/chapters/34825697) or [_The Hot Wax Hypothetical_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679666/chapters/33915786). I hope to be back in January with fresh _Remedies_ for your reading enjoyment! In the meantime, remember...
> 
> !__!
> 
> (@)(-)
> 
> \\.' ::||:: './
> 
> -: :: :: || :: :: :-
> 
> /'. :: .''. :: .'\
> 
>    
> DO BUGS, NOT DRUGS! 


	12. Heats and Hangovers, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Part 2 of our ongoing saga! The darn thing has gone and grown itself a plot, as you will soon see. Many thanks, as ever, to Biting Moopie for helping me iron out the bugs (but not *that* kind of bug) on this latest chapter. Enjoy!

Consciousness filtered back to Knock Out a piece at a time. He was lying on a soft surface, cocooned in his own personal cloud of warmth. Knock Out stretched, and discovered that he ached everywhere, especially his groin. It was a good kind of ache, though. A soreness well-earned. He smiled, recalling the bliss and weightlessness that had crept over him as his heat had finally loosened its grip. 

He was fulfilled, relaxed, and… peaceful. Falling asleep surrounded by the bugs hadn't been so very different from falling asleep with Breakdown curled around him. Well, there'd been more legs involved. But the relief and safety, the drifting into spacious darkness where nothing existed but the faint pulse of his life systems interweaving with those of another, or others, was just the same.

After what had seemed an eternity, Carapax had lifted him from the tangle of frames. His memory of it was fuzzy at the edges, but he did remember being brought into this dark, quiet place and covered with the heavy silk blankets that were draped over him now. Carapax had lingered, singing to him as he'd drifted off, but all was quiet now. Was he alone?

Knock Out rolled on his side, optics straining to decipher his surroundings. A faint, silvery glow spilled from nooks set high in the wall, giving the room a murky definition. The chamber was small, with curved, organic-looking walls. Its sole furnishing was the berth on which he now lay, and… no, he wasn't alone. Someone was sitting on the edge of the berth, their shadowy form untouched by the dim glow. The only feature Knock Out could discern was a single, golden optic glowing in the dark.

"Carapax?" Knock Out's voice was cracked, his throat raw. "How… how long was I asleep?"

The figure stared glassily, its lone yellow optic focused not on Knock Out, but beyond him. The darkness hadn't lifted, but Knock Out was beginning to notice other details. The figure's silhouette was blocky, its shoulders broad. It bore no resemblance to Carapax's slender mantid form. The room's faint radiance picked out hints of gray and dark blue on the figure's plating, a glint of orange where the light brushed a square cheekplate, and a gaping, black hole where the figure's second optic should have been.

"Breakdown?" Knock Out half sat up. "What are you doing here?"

A distant recollection tugged at the corners of his mind, something about Breakdown having died. But that couldn't be true. He was here. As big and solid as life, the berth dipping beneath his weight. Knock Out extended a hand toward him, but some primordial instinct stopped him. Was he afraid to touch? Why? It didn't make sense, considering how often he'd dreamed of this reunion. But there was no warmth from Breakdown. No throb from his engines, no electric quiver in the air to indicate the presence of a living field. And Breakdown didn't look happy to see him. He looked… sad. _So_ sad. 

"You're beyond me now," he said, glancing down toward Knock Out's belly. Following the direction of his disappointed gaze, Knock Out saw the blankets slip aside, revealing…

Knock Out woke with a gasp. He scrambled to sit up and found that he was in the same room, but alone. Just a dream, he told himself as he clawed the blankets aside. Nothing but a wild, wonderful dream involving bugs, and eggs, and ovipositors, and…

"Ohhh frag."

He'd expected to find his belly back to its familiar flatness. Instead, his fingers splayed wide over a round swell. The room's lighting had brightened in response to his movement, giving him a stark, undeniable view of his distended abdomen. 

"Oh Primus."

No wonder Breakdown had looked appalled when he'd seen… no, dammit Breakdown had never been here. He was a figment of Knock Out's dreaming mind. But as for what the rest of the world would think when they saw _this…_ Knock Out ran a shaking hand over the bulge, his spark hammering. 

It didn't look much smaller than it had before. According to Rangemaster's files, the gelatinous layer that cushioned each egg was supposed to dissolve within a few joors after implantation. What if that didn't happen, or what if it didn't happen soon enough? He was supposed to be at the office tomorrow. He had appointments booked. Would he have to show up wrapped in… in Carapax's Host mantle, perhaps? Something nicely concealing? Who'd even guess he was trying to hide anything?

Of course, there was always the possibility that something was wrong. That gelatinous layer around the eggs was packed with hormones and nutrients that were designed to help a Host's body adjust to its new role as incubator. What if the sudden influx of hormones wasn't compatible with Knock Out's own physiology? Rangemaster's files had been referring to _Insecticon_ Hosts, after all, not former Seekers. What if Knock Out experienced horrifying side-effects? What if he ended up disfigured—or worse? He couldn't exactly go to a doctor about it, now could he?

_"Well, doc, it's like this: I've been fragging bugs…"_

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. Knock Out's knees quivered, and he sat down on the berth before his legs had a chance to give way.

"What the Pit was I thinking?"

He'd talked himself into this rather neatly, hadn't he? Sure, it had meant an end to his maddening heat, and yes, it had been an opportunity to live out an incredibly potent fantasy. And hey, the Insecticons had _needed_ him! Knock Out was known for his altruism, wasn't he? That was why he'd joined the Decepticons— _and_ the Autobots. That was why he'd established a private medical practice rather than a public one, and why he'd selected the most lucrative field available. It was all because he was such a helper! Tirelessly devoted to serving the needs of others.

Yeah, right. The ugly truth was that he'd let his heat do his thinking for him. _It seeks to cleanse you,_ Carapax had told him. Well, it had. It had stripped Knock Out of any semblance of reason, hadn’t it? He’d needed nothing more than whiff of Shrapnel's enticing pheromones, a glimpse of his ovipositor and the sight of that burgeoning egg-sac for his mind to go skipping off down a garden path of self-rationalization. He'd even thought the bugs _loved_ him, for Pit's sake—and he them. This was the result.

Knock Out stared at the bulge, which overlapped his thighs in his current sitting position. Even if it subsided, as Rangemaster promised, it wasn't going away forever. The eggs would take about nine orns to develop. By the sixth orn, the little monsters would have grown enough to begin stretching the walls of his tank. He'd start to show, and how was he going to explain that? If being outed as a Seeker would have been career suicide, _this_ was nuclear annihilation. No wonder being in heat was considered a form of madness. 

He surged to his feet. "I need to get out of here."

It was dark here, and quiet, but he needed to be in his own space, surrounded by the familiar trappings of his own life. The city’s hum, the wash of neon spilling across his floor, the feel of his own berth beneath his frame and, just maybe, a shot of chilled hi-grade. If ever a situation called for one, this had to had to be it. 

Knock Out took a shaky step, then another. His body felt strange. His weight was centered lower than it should be, and his head was spinning. He paused, bracing a hand against the wall, and a horrible thought struck him. Could he be a prisoner now? Locked in this small room precisely so he wouldn't run off with the eggs? Hadn't Carapax said something about Insecticons capturing mechs and forcing them to become Hosts against their will?

_We did this to Seekers, especially._

Panic drove him forward. The door whispered open at his approach, and he found himself staring out into a dimly-lit chamber. Its curved walls were lined with doorways much like his own, and many of them stood open as if awaiting the return of their occupants. Either the Hive was set up to accommodate multiple captive Hosts, or… 

"Or, perhaps, this is the residential section of the Hive," he muttered, feeling vaguely silly as he recalled what _else_ Carapax had said about the Insecticons' past behavior. That it was barbaric, and that they would never allow such a thing to happen now. He'd consented to this, every step of the way. Or his heat had consented for him. Either way, he still needed to get out. He needed a chance to sort through this on his own, away from anyone else's influence. To do that, he was going to need a ride. 

Knock Out grabbed one of the silver-gray blankets from the berth and wound it around himself. He'd probably attract some odd looks reentering his apartment building draped in Bug Couture, but it would be easier to pass off as a fashion statement than his belly-bulge would have been. He glanced down at it once more. The bump felt warm to his touch—warmer than his normal body temperature—and he found that touching it like this was surprisingly… well, comforting. 

That made zero sense, and yet at the same time, it made all the sense in the world. Were the eggs themselves having an influence on him? Did they feel safe and comfortable in their new home? He hoped they did. But then again, did eggs _have_ feelings? Perhaps this was the aftermath of his heat, or possibly, a result of the hormones that were doubtless coursing through his system as the eggs' protective casings dissolved.

Either way, he felt unexpectedly buoyant as he stepped through the doorway. The large chamber was deserted, and it led into an equally deserted corridor. Knock Out's initial relief at finding he wasn't under guard faded into unease. Where was everyone? He remembered how quiet the Hive had seemed after his bath, but that, according to his internal chrono, had been joors ago. Shouldn't everyone have come back by now?

Knock Out passed more doorways, most of which stood open. Some appeared to have been used for storage, but they stood empty now and appeared abandoned. Carapax's voice echoed in his thoughts. _"Carapax cannot carry,"_ they'd said, resting a claw on their abdomen. _"Has lost two clutches of eggs. Hive cannot survive like this."_

What if they'd all just… _gone?_ What if they'd left the Hive, left _him?_ What if he was alone here, and would have to find his own way back through the maze of tunnels to reach the surface? And even if he found his way, how would he navigate the unforgiving mountain terrain and trackless desert that lay between him and the city? 

Voices echoed somewhere up ahead. Knock Out sagged with relief, the rational part of his mind all too aware that he'd veered from panic over being a prisoner to equal terror at being abandoned. Talk about emotional ping-pong. It would be hilarious, if he wasn't the one experiencing it. 

Damn. He'd need _two_ shots of hi-grade, just to take the edge off. Doctor's orders. He headed toward the voices. They were Drone voices, which he was starting to recognize, and they were speaking in bug language. Were they arguing? He wasn't sure, though he did recognize one of the individual voices. Ripscare.

Knock Out hurried forward and rounded the corner. It was, indeed, Ripscare. At least… he _sounded_ the same and had the same cobalt-steel plating, but there was also something different about him. Something Knock Out couldn't place. He appeared to be arguing with the copper-brown Drone, the one named Scuttle. 

Scuttle was clutching a container of energon shards. He kept trying to dodge around Ripscare with it as if he was attempting to carry it deeper into the Hive, while Ripscare, with increasingly loud, frustrated clicks, kept blocking his path. Knock Out had no idea what their disagreement was about, but he did know one thing: he'd found his ride.

As he stepped from his hiding spot, the argument reached a climax. The two Drones stood face to face, growling and rattling their wing-casings in a manner that was clearly intended as menacing. Their posturing was so reminiscent of Breakdown squaring off with some drunken fool in a bar-fight that Knock Out couldn't resist strolling over to step between them.

"Well, hello boys. What's up?"


	13. Heats and Hangovers, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to Biting Moopie, my amazing beta, for helping me get this chapter where it needed to go! Special thanks to Dark Star of Chaos for suggesting a small change which made a big difference. You're both awesome!

The two Drones stared at Knock Out as if he were a bright red maraschino cherry that had plopped out of the sky and landed in the middle of their argument.

"Doctor?" Scuttle sounded uncertain.

"Knock Out?" Ripscare's optics, shielded behind his visor, brightened noticeably. "You are still in Hive."

"I… yeah," Knock Out said with a laugh. "I'm hard to get rid of."

It _was_ Ripscare. Now that the big blue bug had switched to speaking in Neocybex, Cybertron's main language, Knock Out would recognize his voice anywhere. Not to mention his scent. After his fearful reaction at finding himself alone in a seemingly deserted Hive, it was a wonderful relief to be face to face—well, nose to grille—with someone he knew. Yet Ripscare's appearance had definitely changed. He wasn't quite the same bug Knock Out remembered from that night they'd shared take-out on his balcony, but Knock Out couldn't place what the difference was. 

"Knock Out seem different," Ripscare said, as if reading his thoughts. "Smell different."

Oh yeah, Knock Out thought. There was no doubt he smelled… well. Like someone who'd just had an orgy with a bunch of bugs. He must _reek._ He tugged the blanket more firmly around himself, but there was no disguising it. Thank Primus the Drones didn't care about that sort of thing, or he might be embarrassed. But Scuttle, at least, appeared to have other things on his mind.

"Doctor," the copper-brown Drone repeated, dipping his helm in a quick nod. He scooted past Ripscare, heading for a side-tunnel. Ripscare lunged to stop him, but it was too late. Scuttle vanished around a corner with the disputed box of energon shards clutched to his chest. Ripscare chittered after him, then sagged in dejection. 

"Scuttle says I am too young," Ripscare explained. "Will not listen."

"Is something wrong?" 

"Energon smell strange."

"Strange? Like… what, poison?" Knock Out had heard of poisoned bait being used to get rid of, well… vermin. A term he would have been fine using in reference to the Insecticons himself, not so long ago. Now, the idea made him cold inside. He drew the blanket more tightly around himself, moving a protective hand to his belly. 

"Not like poison," Ripscare replied, "but Ripscare not like smell. Scuttle say Hive is hungry. Cannot pick and choose. He is right, but…" Ripscare rattled his wing-casings as if to shake off the unpleasant topic and tilted his helm to the side, studying Knock Out quizzically. "Something is different about Knock Out," he said.

"You look different too," Knock Out said, finding himself eager to steer the conversation away from his new status. Ripscare and the other Drones would inevitably find out, and it wasn't exactly a _secret,_ but… "Oh!" Knock Out exclaimed, grinning like a fool. The change was literally right in front of his face. "Your mandible," he said in amazement. "It's all better." 

Ripscare raised a claw to the appendage. "Ah," he said, sounding almost bashful. "Is healing slowly."

 _"Slowly?_ This is what you call slow?" Knock Out reached out as if to touch it. "Can I look?"

Ripscare hesitated. Finally he withdrew his hand, presenting the mandible for inspection. The mandible was slightly smaller than its undamaged counterpart, but it was whole; a far cry from the blackened, misshapen lump Knock Out had bandaged.

"This is remarkable," Knock Out said, brushing a claw-tip along the mandible's length. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear it had never been injured."

"No longer ouch," Ripscare allowed, sounding pleased. "Not ouch since Knock Out fixed. Ripscare thank."

"Just doing my job," Knock Out murmured. Which was about as far from the truth as it was possible to get without stepping outside the field of medicine altogether, but strangely, it _felt_ true. And he felt something else. It was like an echo inside his chest, his spark beating in an accelerated rhythm as he held Ripscare's gaze.

The big Drone nudged his shoulder. "Why Knock Out smell different?" he asked. "Smell like Hive."

"Funny you should ask," Knock Out replied. Was there a protocol for this? _Oh, by the by, I'm Bride of the Bugs._

A buzzing sound from behind saved him from having to answer. An iridescent green blur zipped from the corridor down which he'd just come. As the blur landed with a thump and hurried toward them, Knock Out recognized recognized it as Flitter, the Drone who'd attended him during his bath. 

"What is Knock Out doing out of bed?" she demanded. "Why did Host leave room?"

"Oh I was just, uh…" Knock Out glanced down at himself and said the first thing that came to mind. "I was looking for an extra blanket."

"Host is cold?" Flitter asked. Her tone of alarm had instantly shifted to one of concern, but now Ripscare was staring at Knock Out as if he'd just sprouted wings and a pair antennae. 

"Knock Out is… Host?"

"Well… uh…"

Knock Out pulled the silken folds against his frame, feeling exposed. Flitter's arms, firm and protective, were suddenly around him. 

"Knock Out _is_ Host," she declared. With a touch of pride, she then added, "Flitter is Host Companion."

Ripscare leaned toward Knock Out, scenting the air, then took three measured steps back and bowed so low that his maxillae scraped the floor. "Honored Host," he intoned. "We serve with gratitude and love."

Aaaaand desire to run was back, with dividends. Hadn't he approached Scuttle and Ripscare to ask for a ride home? Yet the desire to escape had faded during his chat with Ripscare, as if Big Blue's mere presence had a calming effect on him. An effect that had evaporated with Flitter's interruption.

"It's… um, not that big a deal," Knock Out babbled, struggling to disentangle himself from Flitter's arms. "I'm subbing for Carapax and it's just this one time, and—"

Fitter interrupted with a few sharp clicks, her arms tightening. Ripscare scuttled even farther back, still bowing. He offered a reply in bug language that was clearly meant for Flitter alone, and scurried away. Knock Out finally extracted himself by slipping free of the blanket. 

"What did you _say_ to him?" he asked.

"Ripscare is young," Flitter replied, wing-casings rattling in agitation. "He oversteps." 

"Oversteps what?"

Flitter wrapped the blanket around him again. "Come," she said, taking hold of his arm. "Flitter will bathe Host. Water will warm him." 

She nudged Knock Out back in the direction from which he'd come, but he hung back. "Um, actually… is there any chance you could fly me home?"

This took some persuading. The argument was punctuated by several long silences, which Knock Out initially took as reflections of Flitter's disapproval until she suddenly put a claw to his lips, muffling his latest protest.

"Hush," she commanded. "When Host so loud, cannot hear Carapax."

 _Oh._ Well didn't that make him feel silly? Knock Out waited, studying Flitter's inscrutable features for any sign of how the conversation might be going. Finally a gentle, familiar touch brushed the edges of his awareness.

 _You wish to be at your own home?_ Carapax asked, their mental voice faint yet distinct. 

"Um, yes," Knock Out said, replying aloud even though he knew he didn't have to. Force of habit, he supposed.

Another long silence followed, ending with a long, resigned sigh from Flitter. "Carapax say fly Host Knock Out home," she said, transforming from her bipedal mode into her insect form. She crouched low, a clear invitation for Knock Out to climb on her back. "Flitter not like this," she said as they rose into the air. "Host should be with Hive, but Carapax word is law."

They arrived in the city just after dark. That was just as well, since Knock Out wouldn't have wanted his neighbors to spot him arriving on bug-back. Explaining that would have taken a level of creativity he wasn't capable of right now. He wasn't capable of much in general.

"Thanks for the ride," he said as he slid from her back. Flitter had produced several more blankets from subspace and bundled them around him as they flew. He energon dumpling on legs by this point, but he tried not to stagger too noticeably in case it gave Flitter an excuse to change her mind. He fumbled the entry code for his balcony door several times, but it eventually slid open with a welcoming 'click-hiss.' Knock Out ducked gratefully inside. 

Flitter tried to follow, but then froze, one foreleg poised in midair. _"This_ is where Host live?" she asked, dismay evident in the faint twitching of one antenna. "What is that smell?"

 _"Smell?"_ Knock Out automatically glanced around, then at himself. He was, without doubt, the smelliest thing within range of her olfactory sensors, but Flitter was gazing past him as she scented the air. She crouched suddenly, sniffing the floor. 

"Is this!" she exclaimed, tapping a claw against the carpet. "This strange mold."

"Mold? That isn't _mold,_ it's my—"

"Smells wrong," Flitter said, sinking powerful foreclaws into the thick pile. "Flitter will remove."

"No! Wait, I—"

Flitter tugged on the carpet, and Knock Out stared in shocked fascination as it carpet began to lift from the floor. Something ripped, snapping him out of his daze.

"Flitter, no! Stop!"

"Mold unhealthy for Host and eggs," Flitter said, perplexed. "Must be removed."

"No, it's okay, it's…" Knock Out patted one of her claws. "Host Knock out say leave the carpet alone."

"Car…pet?" Flitter echoed, combing a claw through the pile. "Car-pet is made of strange things."

"Maybe so, but it was also quite expensive."

She stared at him.

Knock Out sighed. "Fine, I'll see about having it removed." 

This mollified Flitter. She released the carpet, her gaze roaming the rest of the apartment. "Where is hammock?" she suddenly asked. 

"Hammock?"

"Host need hammock."

Knock Out recalled the hammock he'd seen Carapax resting in when they'd been ill. Was that what Flitter meant? "I haven't… installed one." When she merely stared at him, he added, "Yet."

And here he was. Making plans to redecorate his place in early silkworm, after all.

"Seeker has strange ways," she pronounced, pushing through the doorway. "Where is bathing grotto?"

"Oh!" Knock Out dodged into her path. "I can take things from here."

Flitter's toothy mouth curled down at the edges, giving her features a distinct cast of disapproval. "Flitter is Host Companion," she stated. "Flitter will bathe."

"Rain check?" Knock Out suggested hopefully. "What about tomorrow?"

This kicked off another round of negotiations, during which Knock Out learned that a Host's Companion was the bug equivalent of a doula. The Companion was responsible for ensuring the Host's health and comfort during his carrying period, much as the Bulls were responsible for taking care of the Host's… other… needs. 

Flitter wasn't pleased at being asked to leave, but she did finally agree on the condition that Knock Out bathe himself. To this end, she gifted him with an armload of self-care products. At least, that was what she said they were. To Knock Out's unpracticed optic, the odd blocks and lumps looked more like things one might find growing under a log.

"These better for Host," she'd explained. "Better for eggs, too."

Once he was alone, Knock Out carried the objects to his washracks. He cleared space on his vanity, set them down, and stepped back to observe the effect. They looked comically out of place surrounded by his own self-care products, which were elegantly designed to please both the optic and the ego.

Knock Out glanced at his reflection. Exhaustion was etched in every line of his features, and the mere thought of climbing into the shower made him want to curl up on the floor instead. Should he have taken Flitter up on her offer to bathe him? But no, even that was too much. He needed time to himself, to rest and recuperate. If that meant his shower would have to wait until tomorrow, so be it. 

He eased his covering of blankets to one side to get a look at his burgeoning belly. Had the bulge shrunk since he'd last looked? Maybe so, but it was still unmistakable. What if it didn't go away? He had client appointments booked, along with a surgery. If the bulge was still noticeable by tomorrow he'd either have to call in sick, or come up with some clever explanation.Bad take-out? A rare medical condition known to produce swelling in unusual places? A mishap involving a sex toy? 

Well, he'd think of _something._ He always had in the past, whenever he'd needed to cover up for heats or hangovers, and technically, this was both. One enormous, life-changing, bottomless Pit of a hangover from a heat-cycle he'd never forget.

Knock Out tottered from his washracks. His penthouse was exactly as he'd left it; in other words, a complete disaster. Besides the food-stains on his carpet, which were likely permanent, the walls still bore gouges and scorch-marks aplenty. He couldn't even look at the galley. His platinum-veined marble backsplash sported a giant hole where the acid pellet had struck, and would need to be replaced. To top off the mess, every horizontal surface remained cluttered with items he'd pulled from his cupboards during his frantic search for that last bottle of Halcynol pills.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, stumbling into his berthroom. Filthy he might be, but all he wanted to do was slide his aching frame between soft, cool sheets and tumble off the edge of the world.

Unfortunately, his berthroom was _also_ just as he'd left it. The berth was stripped bare, his bedding lying in a stained, crumpled heap beneath the laundry chute, where he'd thrown it… when? It seemed a lifetime ago. Like something that had happened to a different version of himself, in another space-time continuity. And then there was the buffer, also lying on the berth where he'd left it.

Knock Out picked it up. It looked no different than it had the day Breakdown had given it to him. That really _had_ been a lifetime ago. Before the Nemesis. Before the Decepticons. And _definitely_ before…

His memory conjured the dream of Breakdown gazing at him with that sad, accusing look, as if to say, _So_ this _is what you get up to when you're alone._

"Who are you to judge?" Knock Out muttered, dimming the lights. "You fragged a spider. And besides, _I_ wasn't cheating."

He lay down, hunching into the blankets. The silken material smelled buggy, and for no reason at all, he thought of Ripscare. Of his warmth, the solid weight of his arm curling around Knock Out's shoulders, his gentle but persistent questions, and… what _had_ it been, that weightless feeling he'd had when their gazes met? When Knock Out had realized, to his own amazement, that he wanted to kiss Ripscare?

Had _that_ been cheating?

"Obviously not," he muttered. Not compared to the things he _could_ feel guilty about. Getting fragged by four different bugs and accepting a bellyful of eggs was just the latest in a long post-war career of sexual adventures. His momentary urge to kiss Ripscare was downright chaste by comparison, yet his mind kept circling back to it. 

"Imagine if I'd done it," he muttered. "Drones don't even have sex." Poor Ripscare would have been confused and possibly embarrassed if Knock Out had acted on his impulse. "Now _that_ might be something to apologize for," he told the buffer. "But not to you." 

He reached for the wall compartment at the head of his berth, intending to put the buffer away, but changed his mind and pulled it into his cocoon of blankets instead.

"How can you say I'm beyond you?" he asked, curling himself around it. "I can't be beyond you when I can't let you go."

If his optics stung, he didn't acknowledge it. By morning, his conversation with the buffer would be a shrinking memory in his mental rear-view mirror. As they all were. As they should be. But tonight was different. 

As the weight of sleep settled over him, he began to notice a soft, gentle pulsation emanating from the depths of his belly. It stole along his limbs, enveloping his body in golden warmth. Somewhere, just beyond the edges of perception, lay an open road. A hot wind embraced him, surrounding him with the scent of sun-baked desert. Knock Out smiled as his tires met blacktop. His engine hummed to life, rocketing him toward an unseen horizon.

"Destination unknown."

He slipped a hand beneath the covers. The bulge was firm, its warmth comforting. When had he last been this sure he _had_ a destination? When he'd gone to medical school, perhaps. Or when he'd met Breakdown. Or tortured Silas. That had been a destination of sorts, but not like this.

"Welcome aboard, kids," he said, stroking his belly. "Buckle up for safety," he added, curling his legs to protect his little passengers as together, they roared off into a night of racing beneath warm, open skies.


	14. Bed, Bath and Breaking News

A soft, persistent chiming invaded Knock Out's dreams. He groaned, rolling to his side, and squinted at his berthside data-console. A news-alert scrolled along the bottom of its screen, flashing red:

_Attacker pronounced dead. Cybertronian Security Service remains on high alert…_

"Frag o' clock," Knock Out grumbled. He dismissed the alert with the swipe of a claw, slapped the button to silence the alarm, and dove back into his nest of warm blankets. "Jus' another breem, 'kay?" 

The buffer was trapped beneath him, digging into a sensitive seam in his armor. He adjusted his position, but it didn't help. Finally, he burrowed a hand beneath himself to extract the dratted thing, and that was when it hit him. His body was different.

He jolted upright, sleep forgotten. When he touched his belly his fingers met sleek, familiar contours, but nothing else. Nothing… _more._ Knock Out sprang from the berth and stumbled to his washracks, activating the overhead lights with a curt command. He turned slowly, examining his body from all angles. "Frag _me."_

There was no sign of a bulge. None. Not even a doctor would have guessed there'd ever been one. A good thing, he supposed, considering he worked in a place that was lousy with them. But still. He ran a palm over his belly, stroking anxiously.

"You guys still in there?"

What if his whole experience had been a dream? A blisteringly vivid, detailed product of a heat-addled imagination? Would he be relieved? Disappointed? A little of both? He couldn't decide. His gaze fell to his vanity counter where solid evidence of his sojourn with the Insecticons sat, resplendent in full, living… earth-tones. He picked up the nearest of Flitter's bathing items. 

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

It was a lump of opaque, charcoal-colored material, about the size of an Insecticon's fist. It felt slightly oily to his touch and gave off a sweet, earthy aroma that was surprisingly fragrant. Soap? Probably, though the scent, pleasant as it was, would be far too mild to cover, well… he glanced down at himself. What he would need it to cover the scent _of,_ if he was to make a halfway respectable showing at work.

Knock Out set the lump aside and reached for one of his own bottles. Natural cleansers were well and good, but today he needed an industrial-strength clean. He activated the shower, hopped in, and uncapped the bottle. The stench was like slamming into a concrete barrier at full speed in one of those crash-tests. He gagged and stumbled back a step, nearly slipping on the wet tiles.

"Ugh. It must have… curdled, or… something." 

Was that a thing? The stuff was supposed to impart a shine that would 'last millennia,' but maybe it could still spoil? He hastily recapped the bottle, set it aside for later disposal, and reached for another. This one made his optics burn, as did the next, and the fourth one he tried doubled him over in a fit of spluttering coughs. Either his entire collection of self-care products had spontaneously gone rancid, or…

"Picky little maggots, aren't we?" he said, glancing at his deceptively-flat belly. Oh, yes. The eggs were _definitely_ still on board, and asserting their preferences in no uncertain terms. But that shouldn't be happening on the second day of his carrying cycle, should it? Cravings and aversions didn't usually kick in until Orn Five of a Seeker's carrying cycle, but then again, the Insecticon carrying cycle was roughly a third as long. Perhaps it wasn't surprising that his body was reacting at an accelerated rate. 

"Guess I'm stuck with Spa Bug," Knock Out said, reaching for a towel. He stepped from the shower, flinging the towel around himself to keep from dripping, and glanced over his new range of self-care products. With luck and determination, he _might_ be able to scrape off the most obvious traces of his… heat-seeking. 

He sniffed the soap again. "Mmhmm." It smelled buggy in the most delicious of ways, and his lips curled at the memories that came flooding back. He wasn't sure how many eggs Shrapnel had implanted in his gestational chamber. The experience had been one long, continuous overload, and he'd lost track after a while. It had to be at least a dozen. 

"Maybe even a baker's dozen," he said with a giggle. He felt giddy. Was that an after-effect of having undergone an incredibly intense experience? Or were his hormones doing backflips as they struggled to adjust? Or… 

He trailed the soap over his cheek and down the length of his throat. The scent was bringing back wonderful images of his time with the bugs. Carapax's tentacles, gripping and exploring his frame. Bombshell's confident touch and eager kisses. Kickback's shy, sweet desire, and—finally—Shrapnel's ovipositor sliding into the deepest, most intimate part of his body.

Knock Out's spark beat faster, his ventilations deepening. When _were_ the Bulls planning to visit? They'd have reappear sooner rather than later, since Knock Out would need daily infusions of transfluid for the first few orns of his carrying. He really should have made some arrangement with them before leaving the Hive. What if Kickback and Bombshell showed up during the day, when he wasn't here? What if Knock Out's neighbors spotted them? 

The sight of giant bugs treating his balcony like their own personal landing-strip would raise a few optic ridges, if not a general state of alarm. Would Knock Out return home to find his building ringed by enforcement drones? But no. Ripscare and Scuttle had only visited under cover of darkness, which suggested the Insecticons were mostly active at night. One could hardly blame them. If the acid-pellet attack on Ripscare was an indication of how foraging bugs were normally treated, it made sense that they'd keep a low profile. 

Still. It would have been nice to have _some_ idea of when to expect the Bulls, if for no other reason than… "Mmm." Knock Out tweaked the rim of a headlight and shivered at the answering swell of heat in his groin. Images from the previous day cascaded through his mind, weaving a rich tapestry of desire.

There was so much to marvel over, so many unimagined delights. His hand dipped beneath the towel to trace the flat plane of his belly. Was he imagining it, or was there a subtle pulse of warmth now? A fullness? It felt _so_ good, and not just physically. It felt like the answer to a question he'd never thought to ask.

His hand slid lower, claw-tips grazing the panels between his thighs. Even this slight touch was setting him on fire. He curled the hand over his closed valve-panel and rocked into his own grip, an urgent heat blooming beneath his palm. He groaned, writhing as arrows of sweet pleasure shot down along his legs as well as up, into his belly. He sagged forward, catching himself against the edge of the vanity. 

_I could come like this,_ he thought. _Right here, right now. No other touch required._

Was that weird? Not just because he normally had more staying power, but… he cupped his belly. He had _babies_ in there. Egg-babies sure, but still. Would they… mind?

Knock Out had to chuckle. Considering the means by which his little brood had gotten in there in the first place, not to mention that their well-being _required_ him to get fragged on the daily for the next few orns, it seemed like a silly thing to worry about. But this felt different. Without any big, sexy Bulls to distract him from his thoughts, there was nothing between him and the knowledge that he wasn't… _alone_ anymore. He had company wherever he went.

"This is going to take some getting used to."

Knock Out straightened, and was about to get back in the shower when series of strident knocks rang through the apartment. His spark missed a beat. Could that be the Bulls, here for a predawn booty-call? He hurried to answer, tugging the towel more firmly around himself just in case it wasn't the Bulls. Sure enough, when he opened the blinds it was an iridescent-green claw that swept them aside, and the massive frame that followed didn't belong to either Bombshell or Kickback. 

Flitter took two steps toward him, then halted, sniffing the air. "Host has not bathed."

"I was getting to it," Knock Out protested. "I was actually—"

Flitter waved a claw in a slicing motion, her meaning obvious. "Flitter will bathe," she said as she lumbered past him. Knock Out surprised himself by scuttling out of her path. Not that he was intimidated by her. Well, not exactly. More like terrified. 

She stomped into the galley and sniffed the air. "This is where food storage is?" she asked, tapping a claw against the chill-unit.

"Yes. It's—"

Flitter prised the door open and thrust her head inside. "There is nothing! No food, just this." She thrust a burly arm toward him, a crystalline bottle of hi-grade dangling from her claws. "How is Host to be healthy with only this?" 

Knock Out made a dive for it. "Careful with that!" he said, prising it from her grip. "It's an extremely rare vintage." 

Flitter grunted. She slammed the chill-unit shut and began prowling the galley, yanking cupboards open as she went. "Where is _food?"_

"Um… well, I'm a little behind on shopping—"

She leveled him a stern look. "Flitter will make food. But first, Knock Out bathe. Where is grotto?"

Knock Out pointed. Flitter scooped him into her arms as if fearing he might try to escape, and carried him into the washracks. He had to show her how the taps worked, but within klicks she had the overhead spray adjusted to her liking.

"Stand underneath water," she ordered, picking up the armload of products she'd given him the night before. She proceeded to scour him from helm to pede, taking special care to wash between his legs. Her reasons were obvious, and purely utilitarian, but her strong touch felt more than pleasant. Knock Out quashed a renewed stirring of desire, reminding himself that it would be bad manners to become aroused in front of a Drone. Flitter would smell it, and it would be embarrassing for both of them.

Once she was satisfied that Knock Out's frame was squeaky clean, Flitter ran steaming water into the bath, adding judiciously measured portions of the various cleansing agents she'd brought the night before. "This is for beauty," she explained, urging him to lie down.

An Insecticon beauty treatment? Knock Out sank down in his gilt-edged marble tub and released a sigh as the warm, frothy water closed around him. The warmth felt heavenly against his sore frame, and the Spa Bug products had given the water a silky, marvelously sensual feel. He leaned back, half-closing his optics. "Thank you."

Flitter bumped her forehelm against his. "We serve with love and gratitude."

"Well, still. This was…" Knock Out smiled. "Just what the doctor ordered." He wasn't sure if Flitter would understand the idiom, but her chest puffed out and she gave a faint ruffle of her wings as if she were pleased.

"Flitter prepare food now," she announced. "Host come out to eat when ready."

Knock Out simply nodded. Flitter exited, closing the door softly behind herself, and Knock Out dimmed the lights with a word. This wasn't so different from his bath of… had it _really_ only been yesterday? He felt like a different person. He reached beneath the water and ran a hand over his belly, finding it smooth and firm beneath his palm.

Well hidden though the eggs were, he half imagined he could feel them there. A warm, living presence that now shared his body. He'd accepted this change rather easily, hadn't he? Eagerly, in fact. He'd even proposed it. Had some part of him been waiting for this, or something like it? Some part of him that had been in free-fall, and had seized upon it like a lifeline?

 _Had_ he been falling? If so, he hadn't been aware of it. His life was pretty good. His medical practice was successful beyond his wildest dreams. He could truthfully claim to be at the top of his profession, and that success had earned him all the material rewards life had to offer. He lived in a highly exclusive penthouse in a highly exclusive tower in a highly exclusive part of town. He could go racing whenever he wanted and could spoil himself with life's finest indulgences, but he had no one to share it with.

His memory flashed to Breakdown sitting on the edge of one of the Nemesis' medical berths. He'd spoken but a few words, his expression remaining glacial as Knock Out had struggled to patch the ragged hole where his missing optic had been. He had never, Knock Out recalled, actually asked why Knock Out hadn't been the one who'd come to his rescue. Back then, Knock out had been relieved not to be asked. He wouldn't have known how to answer. Not really.

"What if I had been the one to rescue you?" he asked the silence. 

Would that have made any difference? Would they still have fought? Would Breakdown still have tangled with Airachnid? There was no way of knowing. He couldn't change the past, but… 

"Is that what this is?" Knock Out murmured, still running his hand over his belly. He couldn't seem to stop. "Is this some kind of… I don't know, a second chance?"

If it was, it had come in the most unlikely form possible. How could volunteering to become the Bug Bride compensate for having left Breakdown in the hands of sociopathic flesh-creatures? It didn't. Not in any way Knock Out could think of. 

Was he _that_ susceptible to guilt? Was he letting the past run his life to the point where he'd jump at anything that appeared to hold the promise of atonement? That was a troubling thought. It was the stuff from which subconscious death-wishes were forged. But if he had a death-wish, wouldn't he have noticed it by now?

A clang from the galley interrupted his thoughts. Knock Out sighed. He wouldn't have minded lingering in the bath, but he _did_ need to get ready for work. He clambered from the tub, drained it, and began toweling himself dry. His reflection caught his gaze. If he'd doubted the effectiveness of the Insecticons' cleansers, he doubted no longer. His plating boasted a rich sheen that practically glowed under the overhead lights. Maybe Insecticon beauty treatments weren't such a bad idea.

Bath done, Knock Out wandered out to see what further chaos Flitter had inflicted in his galley. To his surprise, he found it spotless. Granted, there was still a rather large hole where the acid-pellet had eaten through his back-splash. His counters had been cleared of debris, though, and Flitter was polishing them with one of her silk cloths.

"You didn't have to clean up," he said. He normally had a cleaning service, though he'd recently fired them on suspicion of theft, and hadn’t gotten around to finding another. All things considered, that was probably just as well.

"Host needs clean place to live," Flitter replied, scrubbing harder at a stubborn spot. "Flitter needs order to do work." She flicked an antenna toward the far end of the counter. "Food is ready. Host eat."

Knock Out sensed the note of command in her voice, and went to investigate the meal she'd set out. Unprocessed energon crystals, sliced wafer-thin and dusted with a fine metallic powder. He sniffed it.

"Zinc?" His skepticism must have come through in his voice, because Flitter bristled. 

“Eat,” she repeated, shoving the plate toward him. "This is good food for Host and eggs."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Knock Out replied, trying not to make a face. It was the plainest sort of health food, the type of meal he’d expect to find in one of those 'natural' restaurants where flavor was considered, at best, a frivolous indulgence. He poked a wafer with his claw and reached for the sticky-sauce. "Mind if I add some of this?"

Flitter smacked the bottle from his hand. "That is not food."

Technically, he supposed she was right. It was an industrial by-product that happened to taste good.

"How about mercury gel?"

Flitter growled, and he set the bottle aside before she could smack it away.

"Gold-shimmer dust?"

Flitter rattled her wings menacingly. "Eat!"

Knock Out picked up one of the wafers and stared at it, summoning his courage. His comm buzzed. He answered automatically, and regretted it when Pharma's voice oozed over the line.

"Hey, Knock. I wondered if I could beg a favor."

"What sort of favor?"

"Ah. I guess you haven't seen the news, then."

"News?" Knock Out echoed. Did Pharma sound tired, or was it just a bad connection? The line was tinny and peppered with bursts of static. Knock Out could hear voices in the background, snatches of conversation he couldn't make out, though one voice _did_ sound awfully familiar. A recollection tugged at a corner of his mind. "Wait," he said. "There was something about an attack this morning. Is that what you're talking about?"

"Quite. Capsule version: someone we both know tried to assassinate your Prime." 

Knock Out dropped his wafer. "Assassinate… _what?"_

Pharma always referred to Optimus as 'your Prime.' It didn't seem to matter that Knock Out and Optimus Prime barely knew each other. Or that Knock Out was a former Con. The fact that they'd been on the same team—however briefly—was apparently enough to link them in Pharma's mind. Knock Out suspected he was jealous.

"Don't worry, your pretty's alive. His security team wasted no time in ventilating the perp. Want to guess who said perp was?"

"You said it was someone we both know?"

"Indeed."

Knock Out picked up the wafer. He used its edge to carve a snowdrift of zinc into neat partitions while sorting through the list of possible suspects. It pleased him to note that there weren't many. He and Pharma were both doctors, sure, but the similarities ended there. At least, Knock Out preferred to think they did. Except… _Oh._

"Not _Serenis?"_ Knock Out said, trying to picture their mutual former teacher attacking the Prime. It wasn't as hard to imagine he would have thought, considering Serenis' famously short temper. He was one of the most ironically-named mechs Knock Out had ever met, though Serenis' name had served him well. It had become the basis for the name of his company, Seren _tex,_ manufacturer of Cybertron's most popular heat drug.

"Ha!" Pharma sounded pleased. "You got it in one. Which brings me to the favor I need to ask. Could I possibly borrow your fancy lawyer?"

"My…" Knock Out bit down on the wafer. It crunched between his dentae, flooding his mouth with a crisp and surprisingly sweet taste. He recoiled, frowning at the morsel. _This_ was zinc? This ambrosial delicacy? How had he never noticed how delicious it was? Knock Out grabbed another wafer, then a handful. "Why do you need a lawyer?"

"They seem to think I might have been involved."

"Meaning the police?"

"If only. I woke to a pair of Cybertronian Security agents on my front doorstep. Turns out it wasn't a singing telegram, as I'd hoped. They've hauled me down to the local Doc Center."

"Whoa." The Documentation Centers, located in every urban center across Cybertron, were the planetary government's way of keeping tabs on former Decepticons. Pharma, however, was not a Decepticon. If the Security agents had taken an interest in _him…_

"I'm surprised they haven't summoned _you_ down here," Pharma remarked, giving voice to Knock Out's next thought. "I guess that's what being a rich war-hero and having a personal connection to the Prime will do for a mech."

"I've seen the inside of the Doc Center plenty of times," Knock Out shot back. Every time he'd changed his home or office address, for example. He bit into another of the zinc-dusted wonders, noting Flitter's glance of approval. _"Were_ you involved, Pharma?"

"In trying to assassinate my _own_ Prime?" Pharma spluttered. "Of course I—" he broke off. "Are you _eating?"_

Knock Out ignored the question. "If I send my lawyer down there, I want something in return. A favor of equal magnitude, you might say."

He half expected Pharma to make a smarmy comment about the length—and girth—of the 'service' he'd be willing to offer in return. When Pharma didn't, Knock out felt an unexpected chill settle over him. This was serious. He was about to agree, and tell Pharma that he'd contact his lawyer forthwith, when a second series of knocks echoed through his apartment. This time, they were coming from his _front_ door.

"Cybertronian Security Service," a voice boomed from the far side of the door. "Open up."

Knock Out couldn't see the look on his own face, but he could tell, from the way Flitter's massive shoulders tensed, that his alarm was broadcasting like a neon billboard.

"It's okay," he whispered, more to himself than to Flitter. For once, he didn't have anything illegal in the apartment. If they searched, they'd find… well. Honey pods—both full and discarded—some highly unusual bed-linens, some even more unusual self-care products, and… oh yes, one giant bug. Who was stomping toward the door with her claws raised. Knock Out dashed to intercept, catching Flitter by the arms.

"You have to get out of here," he whispered.

Flitter rumbled deep in her chest. "Host afraid. Flitter can smell."

"Yes, but…" How was he going to explain this? "I have someone who… um, protects me against law enforcement people."

"Warrior of Laws?" Flitter asked. 

"Yes, exactly. She knows how to deal with these people."

"Where she now?"

"I'll summon her—"

The knock was repeated, louder this time. "Open this door," the voice shouted, "or we'll knock it down!"

Frag it all to the Pit, and back. "Go, please," he said, giving Flitter a light shove toward the balcony. "I'll take care of this."

Flitter took a reluctant step back. Something struck the door from outside, rattling it in its housing. 

"Wait, wait!" Knock Out said, finally going to answer. He activated his security vid-cam and trained it on the two figures in the hall outside. They were typical enforcers. Deep of chest, broad of shoulders, and one of them had pile-drivers for arms. If only they _were_ a singing telegram. Under less harrowing circumstances, Knock Out wouldn't have minded asking this pair in for a little 'entertainment.'

"Can I see some ID?" he asked instead. He had no doubt that they were who they said they were, but it didn't hurt to let them know he was aware of his rights.

As the two agents presented their holo-badges to the hall camera, Knock Out shot a glance back at Flitter—who wasn't there. She had melted away quiet as a shadow, the waving of his balcony blinds the only sign that she'd ever been there at all.

"All right boys," Knock Out said. "I'm coming out. Just be gentle with me. That's all I ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, into the next arc of the story! I'd planned on posting this chapter last week, but it needed some (um, a lot?) of extra tweaking to get things truly underway. As always, many thanks to Biting Moopie for having patiently beta-read all the various revisions I made to this! With your assistance, I believe it has gotten to where it needed to be.


	15. Buffed, But Not Cuffed

Knock Out's two new pals escorted him out onto the rooftop. They hadn't cuffed him, but then again, where was he going to go?

"Limo service?" Knock Out asked as he spotted the waiting armored transport. "For a first date, you guys went all out. I'm impressed."

The one with the pile-driver arms grunted. It might have been a laugh. Then again it might have been indigestion, or simply the noise he liked making before he ripped someone's head off. Knock Out took the seat they indicated for him and peered anxiously through the plexisteel window as they took off. 

There was no sign of Flitter. Had she managed to slip away? Insecticons were amazingly good at staying hidden, despite their size. Then again… another thought hit him, and his gut sank. What if she'd gone for help? Was the transport about to be mobbed by well-meaning bugs intent on rescuing their Host? That… wouldn't be good. For anyone, but particularly not for Knock Out's reputation.

To his intense relief, they reached the Documentation Center without incident. It wasn't the usual Doc Center Knock Out reported to, but a larger, more centralized branch near the heart of the city. It looked the same, though: a featureless gray box. The Doc Centers were designed to look just a bit prison-like, perhaps as a not-so-subtle reminder to former Decepticons that their freedom was conditional, and could be revoked on a whim.

They landed on the roof, and two new guards escorted Knock Out to a lift that whisked him down, down, down into the gray building's innards. It was like being buried alive, and it was all too easy to imagine disappearing into these gray depths never to be heard from again. Another obvious intimidation tactic, but knowing that it was didn't make it any less effective. 

The guards brought him to a gray, windowless room. Its sole furnishing was a steel table with a built-in set of energon cuffs, but once again, the guards didn't restrain him. Knock Out supposed they just wanted him to know how easily they _could,_ if he gave them any trouble. He didn't give them trouble. He'd used his one comm call to contact his lawyer, and she'd be here… any moment. He hoped.

Time crawled, moments turning into breems. Just to show that he wasn't unnerved by any of this, Knock Out reached in his subspace. Both guards tensed, reaching for their weapons. Knock Out drew out his claw-care kit. 

"One simply _must_ buff," he said, holding it up where they could both see it. His kit was particularly innocuous-looking, being made of pink plexisteel and semi-transparent, so that the objects within were clearly visible. The guards exchanged uneasy glances but did nothing to intervene as Knock Out opened his kit and began filing down the rough edges on his claws. When _was_ his lawyer getting here, anyway?

He nearly jumped when the door swung open, but the mech who entered wasn't his lawyer. She was a sleek blue-and-white Praxian with a Cybertronian Security Services badge displayed prominently on one of her door-wings. Her blue gaze swept over him, taking in the open kit, his pseudo-relaxed posture, and… was it _bad_ that his bath had left him this shiny? Granted, he wouldn't give the impression of having recently been in a fight, but perhaps it gave the impression of an elaborately concocted alibi?

Damn. He was over-thinking this. 

"Howdy," he said. 

She smiled. "Good morning, Knock Out. Thanks for coming in. I'm Strongarm of the Cybertronian Security Forces." 

"Nice to meet you, Strongarm."

She nodded. "I need to ask you a few questions regarding the attempted assassination of Optimus Prime."

"Of course," said Knock Out. "I'm just waiting for my lawyer—"

"They're purely routine," Strongarm interrupted, taking the seat across from him. "The sooner we get started, the sooner you can leave. Where were you last night?"

So this was how they were going to play it. First the scary cops, now a nice one. But the joke was on them. They were _all_ scary, as far as Knock Out was concerned.

"Purely routine, hm?" he asked, meticulously polishing the underside of his pinky-claw. "I was flown here by armored transport. Is that routine?"

"It is today," Strongarm responded. She studied him thoughtfully. "What brand of polish do you use?"

Knock Out's gaze snapped up to meet hers. "Are we doing beauty-talk now?" 

She smiled. "No, I was just curious. It seems to do an excellent job."

"That it does." He went back to polishing.

"Do you know a mech named Pharma?"

Damn it. 

"Ever-gleam," he said.

"What?"

"The brand of polish I use." He slid the jar across the table to her. "I recommend using a sponge applicator and a number-five burnishing rod. A number four will work too, but I find the five gets into the joint-seams better."

"I see." Strongarm picked up the jar and turned it over in her hands. "You're not in any trouble," she said. "We're just trying to eliminate potential suspects. If there are any witnesses we can call upon to confirm your whereabouts over the past two day-cycles, that would be a great help to both of us."

The past two day-cycles, hmm? Knock Out could call on witnesses galore, but they were all Insecticons. He couldn't exactly say he'd been making house-calls for Insecticons, now could he?

"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to my lawyer." Knock Out darted a glance toward the door, hoping to hear footsteps approaching down the corridor. Where _was_ she? What could be taking this long?

Strongarm's gaze pinned him like a bug on a specimen-board. "Are you sure you want to play it that way, Knock Out?"

"Oh, yes." He was more than sure. He turned back to polishing, ignoring the faint crease that had appeared between her brow-ridges. 

Strongarm sighed. She pushed her chair back and started to rise. Without warning, the door slammed open, crashing against the wall so hard that Knock Out felt the vibrations in his dentae. A dark form thrust itself into the room.

_Finally._

"Is my client under arrest?" his lawyer asked. Retrograde's voice, in contrast with the rest of her appearance, was glacier-calm. Legend held Sweeps to be creations of Unicron himself, and it wasn't hard to see why. Retrograde carried her bat-like wings high above her back like a set of raised hackles, and her barbed tail lashed about her thighs with understated menace. Knock Out wasn't at all surprised to see one of the burly guards edging away from her. 

Strongarm didn't—quite—flinch. "We were just asking a few routine—"

"I know what you were doing." Retrograde crossed the floor in two strides, hooked a taloned hand beneath Knock Out's arm and pulled him to his feet. "You didn't say anything, did you?"

"That would be a negative," Knock Out replied, grateful that it was true. At this range, she'd smell a lie on him before it even left his vocalizer.

"Excellent." She spun Knock Out toward the door and gave him a firm shove. "Let's get out of here."

Knock Out shot a backward glance at Strongarm. "Keep the kit," he called over his shoulder as Retrograde pulled him into the corridor. A dazed-looking Pharma was waiting for them outside. He winced as Retrograde swept past, but he fell in step with Knock Out as she led them toward the lift. 

"Your lawyer's a Sweep!" he hissed through clenched dentae.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

They boarded the lift. The guards tried to escort them, but Retrograde hit the lift controls, slamming the doors in the guards' faces.

"We need to talk," she said, "all three of us. Is there somewhere we can speak in confidence?"

Retrograde sported an Iaconian accent, though its smooth, cultured cadence barely took the edge off the sepulchral currents beneath, lurking like shipwrecks below the surface of a placid ocean. She was, bar none, the best lawyer Knock Out had ever had. Which didn't mean he wasn't terrified of her. Quite the opposite.

"There's a hush-bar not far from here," Pharma suggested.

"Perfect."

The lift doors snapped open, admitting them to the building's main receiving area. In every detail, it was identical to the one in the Doc Center where Knock Out normally went to report things like changes of address. Three of its four walls were lined by rows of plexi-shielded desks. These were manned by exhausted-looking Security Service agents, while still other agents roamed the large room, shepherding potential suspects into orderly lines.

The place was packed. Knock Out scanned the throng, and was discomfited to find they were mostly Vehicons, miners and other representatives of what the Autobots had referred to as the Decepticon 'servant class.' Breakdown had been able to tell the Vehicons apart. Knock Out had never developed that skill, nor had he cared to, which meant that he could be surrounded by Nemesis alumni and never know it. The last thing he wanted was an impromptu reunion with any of his former shipmates.

"It's as if they summoned every former Decepticon in the entire city," he muttered, edging closer to his two companions as they wove their way through the crowd.

"Summoned," Retrograde echoed thoughtfully. "Did either of you receive a summons?"

Pharma shook his head. "What I _received_ was a pair of security agents on my doorstep."

"Same," Knock Out agreed, thinking back to the scrolling message on his data-console. He'd barely glanced at it, but it _had_ been a news-alert, not a summons. Had the security agents been trying to catch him unawares? 

Retrograde gave a pensive lash of her tail. "This is troubling," she said. "They're giving both of you some kind of special treatment. We need to figure out why."

"Not the kind of special treatment I _prefer_ to receive," Pharma muttered.

Knock Out was about to offer spark-felt agreement when a too-familiar voice cut through the babble of nearby conversations. 

"First the interrogation cells and now _this?_ I'm telling you, I do _not_ have time for this nonsense! I have far better things to do than hang around here, pandering to Autobot paranoia!"

Knock Out winced. It was the voice he'd overheard during his comm-call with Pharma, but it was no longer in the background. It was directly ahead… or was that to the left? It was so close, he was sure he could have reached out and touched the speaker—if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't. He scooted closer to Retrograde, hoping her massive wings would shield him, and in the process plowed into a wiry form that whirled on him with an indignant squawk, talons raised.

"Well, well," Starscream hissed. "If it isn't the whole Nemesis gang reunited. Good times."

"The very best," Knock Out agreed, drawing away from those gleaming finger-knives in case Starscream decided to take out his foul mood on Knock Out's finish. Had those talons _grown?_ They looked longer than Knock Out remembered. He darted a quick glance around. Who else was here? No one he could identify, though perhaps Starscream was referring to the Vehicons. 

Starscream had commanded the flighted ones as if they were Seekers, and perhaps he'd learned to tell them apart the way Breakdown had, and… and… _oh._ Starscream's talons _had_ grown. By a lot. And that wasn't the only thing that had changed about him. He was undeniably… _thicker_ through his middle. Knock Out cleared his vocalizer.

"It seems congratulations are in order," Knock Out said, fighting to keep his gaze front and center. This was more out of self-preservation than any desire not to gawk. The notion of Starscream carrying was so bizarre that he could barely process it. "Who's the lucky sire, if I might ask?"

"None of your business," Starscream growled. He lowered a hand to shield his belly, and Knock Out's arm twitched in a sympathetic impulse to do the same. Damn. Was he going to be this obvious about it? Were his claws going to get this long—and was he going to _smell_ like this? The cloud of pheromones surrounding Starscream was dense enough to carve into slices.

Holy frag. Starscream, of all people, was going to be a _parent._ If that wasn't proof that the world had lost its marbles, Knock Out didn't know what was. Belatedly, he noticed that Starscream was flanked by a towering pair of guards and that the Security Service agent at whom Starscream had been shouting was trying to regain his attention. Poor fool.

"I need you to fill this out," the agent said, holding out a data-pad. "After that we'll need a statement—"

Starscream rounded on him. "I've given all the 'statement' I intend to give. As I've already explained several times, I have immunity in these proceedings."

"And yet you've refused to provide any documentation in support of that claim," said the agent, who clearly lacked anything resembling an instinct for survival.

Starscream's wings flared—a bad sign—and he cocked his helm to one side. "Pardon me?" His tone was silken; also a bad sign. "Are you somehow unaware of who I _am?"_

"Um…" the agent glanced at his data-pad. He looked young, Knock Out realized. Possibly too young to have much, if any, recollection of the war. "I'm… look, just fill it out, okay? We d-don't have all day." 

"My point exactly," Starscream returned. "You _don't_ know who I am, do you?"

The agent's faceplate visibly heated. "Should I?"

 _"Should_ you?" Starscream snaked an arm toward the agent, who wisely took a step back, though Starscream only plucked the data-pad from his fingers. He glanced it over, and his wings sagged a fraction. "This _does_ have my name on it."

"I… I'm new," the agent admitted. "I don't—"

"I can tell," Starscream interrupted, handing the data-pad back to him. "They _do_ say history is written by the winners, though I didn't expect to see my legacy erased within a single generation."

Starscream drew his wings up stiffly and turned toward the main doors, as if he planned to exit. The two massive guards stepped into his path, and Knock Out tensed. Was this about to turn explosive? Starscream was a dangerous fighter, especially in the air, but former Decepticons were forbidden to possess weapons. All Starscream had were his overgrown talons, which were no match for the paramilitary armaments possessed by the guards. If this turned violent, it was Starscream who would pay the price. Starscream, and his unborn eggs. 

Without thinking, Knock Out took a step forward and caught Starscream's arm. Starscream spun toward him with a snarl, but Knock Out pasted a smile on his face and did his best to ignore the talons menacing his optics. 

"I say," he declared loudly. "Have any of you heard the one about the invisible mech who tried to make an appointment with the doctor?" 

Everyone—absolutely everyone—stared at Knock Out, including Starscream, the agent, the guards, Pharma and Retrograde, along with a handful Vehicons who'd formed a ring around them in anticipation of a fight.

Knock Out paused, glancing around. "Anyone? No? So the doctor told the mech, 'Sorry, I can't see you right now.'"

No one laughed. One of the Vehicons began to chant, "Fight, fight!"

"Um." Knock Out chuckled weakly. "Get it? The mech was _invisible,_ so the doctor—"

"Fight!" yelled another Vehicon. "Fight! Fight!" 

One by one, they took up the chant, pumping their fists in the air. The guards exchanged glances, and one reached for his security badge, but a Vehicon lunged forward and punched him in the face. 

The guard took a staggering step back, one hand rising to his scuffed jaw as if he couldn't believe what had just happened. The second guard didn't hesitate. He scooped the Vehicon into the air and hurled him full-force into his still-chanting companions.

The Vehicons tumbled like cyber-bowling pins. The guards—who really could have left it at that, but seemed pleased to have an excuse to pound something—waded into the thrashing pile of bodies. And that was all it took. 

"Oh, scrap," Starscream muttered.

For once, Knock Out was in full agreement with him. _Oh scrap_ was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Biting Moopie for a). being the best editor ever, and b). suggesting the best-ever chapter title. So, _so_ many kudos!


	16. An Unquiet Riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my wonderful beta, Biting Moopie, whose feedback on this hectic chapter was particularly helpful. I also want to extend a VERY special note of gratitude to [Dark Star of Chaos](https://darkstarofchaos.tumblr.com/) for creating this wonderful character design [illustration of Carapax](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15604230/chapters/36784821)! It's simply gorgeous and you guys all need to check it out, stat! :-D

As if a spark had been struck in a chamber filled with volatile gasses, the Documentation Center's dull atmosphere of rage exploded into physical violence. Fists flew. Everyone was yelling, and Knock Out heard the crunch of dented metal from all sides. No one was paying attention to him, or to Starscream. 

The riot was taking on a life of its own, and even the guards seemed powerless to resist its pull. A few were making a token effort to contain the seething vortex, but many others simply waded in. It was as if everyone in the room had been waiting for an excuse to pound something.

Knock Out ducked as a Vehicon, evidently tossed by one of the guards, hurtled past above his head. One of the hapless mech's flailing arms cuffed his shoulder, leaving a deep scratch.

"Ow, my finish!" Knock Out clutched at the damaged area. Turning to Retrograde, he added, "We need to get out of here."

Pharma beat her to a response. "Oh, you think?" he asked, rising on his antigravs. "I'm way ahead of you. See you outside."

"Pharma—what? Wait!"

It was too late. Pharma had already transformed into his jet mode and was rocketing toward the main doors. Knock Out swore through clenched dentae.

"If he thinks I'm going to just keep loaning him my lawyer—"

"Loaning?" Retrograde arched a crooked brow-ridge. "I'm not a file from the library."

"I know, but—oh scrap!" Knock Out dodged behind one of her massive wings, preserving his finish from being seared by a laser blast. He felt its heat as it zipped past. Who here had lasers? One of the guards? Or was a Vehicon packing illegally? 

"Let's get out of here first and hash out the details later," he suggested, and leaped back with a yelp as an acid pellet struck the floor near one of his pedes.

"Your friend who just left had the right idea," Starscream muttered, straining for a glimpse above the crowd. "I believe we have two options. Fight or," his gaze raked across Knock Out's wingless shoulders, "flight."

"Easy for you to say," Knock Out shot back. "Why _don't_ you just take off?"

"You might have noticed that I'm in what might be termed a 'delicate' condition," Starscream replied, curling a protective hand over his belly. "I can scarcely walk, let alone transform."

"I'd carry you both if I could," Retrograde said, shifting into her dragonish berserker mode, "but it looks like 'fight' is our best option."

No sooner had she spoken but a guard stumbled from the melee. He took a swipe at Starscream's helm. Starscream ducked an instant too late. The guard's fist connected with the prong that rose from the center of Starscream's forehelm, crushing its tip. 

"Watch it!" Starscream cried, making a grab for the injured appendage. "Don't you know who I am?"

He scuttled back the guard stepped closer. Knock Out drew his energon prod from subspace and smashed it into the guard's knees, knocking his legs from under him. The guard hit the floor with a crash and scrambled away as Knock Out raised the prod for a second blow.

"Much as I hate following trends," Knock Out said, addressing Retrograde, "I'm inclined to think fighting is our _only_ option. Shall we?"

Starscream glared at him. "Easy for you to say. Apparently, you're still allowed to carry weapons!"

"I'm not 'allowed' to," Knock Out snapped, "I just _do._ And by the by, you're ever so welcome."

"No doubt you get away with because you switched sides," Starscream sniffed. "Then again," he added, his gaze once again settling on Knock Out's wheel-mounts, which anchored to his shoulders where his wings had once been, "changing sides is nothing new for _you,_ is it?"

Knock Out crossed the distance between them in two strides. "What exactly are you trying to say?" he snarled, leaning up on the tips of his pedes to get properly in Starscream's face. 

"Struck a neural relay, have I?" Starscream asked. His lips curled in a supercilious half-smile, but then his optics widened, his gaze flicking down toward the lower half of Knock Out's frame. "You didn't—you aren't…"

"Boys!" Retrograde cracked her tail between them like a whip. "Perhaps this is not the ideal place to argue about your former allegiances."

"Or the lack thereof," Starscream put in snidely. Apparently, he'd recovered from whatever had startled him a moment earlier. Knock Out could only hope that it wasn't what he feared it was.

"You, carrier," Retrograde said, addressing Starscream. "If you're unarmed as you've implied, stay between us for the safety of your brood."

"I do have a _name,_ " Starscream said, bristling.

"Fine," Retrograde snapped. "What is it?"

"Seriously?" Starscream looked scandalized. "Does _no one_ here know who I am?"

"Hey, um—guys?" The young Security Service agent who Starscream had been menacing earlier was limping toward them. He was clutching his hip, which looked badly dented, and one of the helicopter rotor blades that sprouted from his back was mangled beyond all hope of flight. "If you guys are getting out of here, take me?"

"And why would we do _that?"_ Starscream hissed, rounding on him with talons raised to strike. 

The agent balked, but raised a trembling arm to point at the main doors. "They're lowering the blast shields."

"The _what_ now?" Knock Out spun toward the front entrance in time to see heavy shields sliding into place, sealing the Documentation Center from the outside world. "Oh slag—they're locking us _in?"_

"It's a security p-protocol," the agent stammered. "But I know the code. Just get me to the c-control booth to the left, and I'll do the rest."

Retrograde glanced at the control booth. Her tail flicked thoughtfully and she dropped to one knee. "All right, kid, climb on," she invited. "You can't walk or fly in that condition."

"Thanks." The agent reached hesitantly for one of her shoulder-spines and used it to lift himself up. "I'm Blades, by the way," he added. "Not kid."

"Okay, not-kid," Retrograde said, flattening her spines back so they surrounded him like a protective cage. "Hang on. And you two," she added, twisting her long neck to fix a glare on Starscream and Knock Out, "stay close, and try not to kill each other. This is going to get messy enough without anyone being up on murder charges."

She plunged into the fray. A group of Vehicons, who'd been brawling with one of the guards, saw her coming and scattered. The guard, apparently cursed with an overzealous sense of duty, stepped into her path. He raised a stun-rifle, which Retrograde seized and crushed in her jaws before tossing him aside with a quick swing of her spiky, horned helm. 

The hapless guard plowed into one of his fellow guards, who pile-drove him with an elbow to the jaw before realizing they were on the same side. By then, it was too late. Vehicons gleefully piled onto the fallen guard. Retrograde stepped lightly over the heap of struggling bodies, her midnight wings spread behind her like a cloak. 

The next group of rioters saw her coming and scrambled out of the way. Retrograde glided through, the crowd melting to either side as if making way for royalty. Knock Out resisted the urge to wave. 

Starscream edged closer to him. "That's your lawyer?"

"Indeed," Knock Out replied. "And before you ask, no: you can't borrow her."

Starscream's brows shot up. "Please," he said, "tell me she's _not_ the sire."

Knock Out froze mid-step. "Um. What?"

"You really think I can't smell it on you?" Starscream asked, smirking. "You might not be showing just yet, but I can tell."

Oh… just frag. Double-frag on a titanium wafer with a side-order of Sharkticon caviar.

"That's none of _your_ business," Knock Out replied, all too aware that it amounted to a confession. Not that he had much choice in the matter. Seekers _could_ smell hormonal changes in one another, even subtle ones. If he was going to keep this a secret, he was going to have to avoid other Seekers. Of course, that wasn't—usually—a problem.

"We haven't told anyone," Knock Out said in a low voice, darting a glance at Retrograde. "You can understand that, right?"

There was a crunch of metal up ahead, followed by a pained grunt as Retrograde tossed a Vehicon over her shoulder. Knock Out winced as he ducked the unfortunate mech's flailing arms. This was a gamble that could go wrong in _so_ many ways. Ways that included Retrograde ripping his arms off if she discovered his ruse. 'Lending' her to Pharma, for pay, was one thing. Letting Starscream believe she was the sire of his brood, on the other hand…

"I do understand," Starscream replied. He glanced at his own burgeoning abdomen, his expression softening. "I've always kept your secrets in the past, have I not?"

A lumbering gun-mech blundered against Starscream, throwing him off balance. Without even looking, Knock Out rammed his prod against a sensitive spot on the mech's torso and shoved him back into the melee.

"You've kept my _what?"_ he demanded.

"From the very beginning," Starscream replied, sounding oddly hurt. "Don't get me wrong. I can't imagine any sane mech choosing as you did—" he broke off, aiming a wicked side-kick past Knock Out's shoulder. His long, pointed heel caught a lunging Vehicon in the neck and sent him sprawling "—but I have always respected your privacy," he added, nodding with satisfaction as the choking Vehicon dragged himself away. "I never outed you; I consider that to be a point of honor."

"You were also never above blackmail," Knock Out countered. 

"Obviously not," Starscream replied, flicking imaginary dirt from his chest-plate. "One must use every advantage one can find. But you will notice that I never blackmailed you over that _particular_ skeleton in your proverbial closet."

"It's not a—" Knock Out felled an over-enthusiastic security agent who was swinging a pipe at them. "Never mind."

It _was_ a closet. And a skeleton. And Starscream was right. He'd made his disapproval of Knock Out's frame choice abundantly clear when they'd first met, but he'd couched it in terms only a fellow Seeker would have been able to decode. Did Starscream, of all mechs, possess something approaching a sense of honor? It was hard to imagine, but then again… Knock Out's gaze dropped to Starscream's belly… Starscream was nothing if not _full_ of surprises.

"So what are you going to tell them?" Starscream asked, jerking his chin toward Knock Out's belly. "I imagine it'll be awkward if they take after you _too_ much. Unless, of course, you plan on having them conveniently… clipped."

"And just when I thought we were getting cozy," Knock Out retorted, seizing Starscream's arm with a little more force than necessary as he yanked him from the path of an oncoming guard. Carrying or not, Starscream was still a raging aft. He was just a raging aft with certain… principles. Apparently. 

A thunderous boom rumbled from somewhere ahead. 

Starscream glanced up sharply. "Did that sound like a concussion grenade?"

"I guess?" Knock Out gave Starscream a sidelong glance, startled by the expression that was taking over his gaunt features. It wasn't his usual mix of annoyance, contempt and smugness. It was something else entirely. It was… almost…

Knock Out never got a chance to decide what it almost was, because at that moment, it started to rain. _Inside_ the Documentation Center. Warning sirens began to howl as water jetted down from the ceiling.

"It seems your friend hasn't abandoned us after all," Starscream observed, glancing up.

Knock Out followed the direction of Starscream's gaze and caught sight of Pharma dangling from the ceiling, his long legs hooked through the scaffolding that supported the sprinkler system. He was holding a lighted welding torch in one hand and an aerosol can—which appeared to be filled with something flammable—in the other. It was the resulting haze of chemical smoke that had clearly triggered the sprinklers.

Pharma noticed them looking, and grinned. _You're welcome,_ he mouthed silently. 

Knock Out responded with a gesture of his own. "Fragger," he muttered. "And he's _not_ my friend."

"A commendable choice," Starscream agreed. "I've heard things."

"But he _is_ saving our afts," Retrograde pointed out, "so I take it I'm still representing him."

"I suppose," Knock Out replied. He had to admit that the impromptu shower was having a literal dampening effect on the riot. Everywhere he looked, rioters were snapping out of their battle-frenzy. Some were glancing up at the ceiling while others skidded in the puddles that were rapidly forming on the polished floor. 

"The blast shields," Blades reminded them.

"Oh. Right." Knock Out turned toward the control booth. As he did, the thunderous sound returned, shaking the floor beneath his pedes. 

Starscream made a tiny sound at the back of his throat. "I know what that is," he said, taking off at a limping trot. "We need to get those doors open before he breaks them down."

"He? What? Who?" Knock Out tried to run after him, but slipped and nearly fell on his aft. 

How Starscream was able to run in heels while gripping his heavy belly in one hand was a complete mystery, but he managed just fine. He vaulted a heap of groaning rioters to reach the booth next to the doors. It wasn't guarded. "You, kid!" He jabbed a claw at Blades. "What's the passcode?"

Another crash rocked the building as Blades, still clinging to Retrograde's shoulder-spines, began shouting a string of numbers at the top of his voice. Knock Out began repeating them to Starscream, but Starscream silenced him with a hiss. His clawed hands clacked over the door-controls with improbable speed as another crash sounded, and then—suddenly—the doors were open.

Later, Knock Out would puzzle over whether the blast shields had opened on their own, or been smashed open. It was hard to tell with all the light blasting in. It transformed the downpour into a crystalline curtain, igniting rainbows in the billows of steam that rose from the floor. 

At the center of all that radiance was a pale, shining form. _An angel,_ Knock Out thought sluggishly, though a second glance revealed it to be a Seeker. A very _big_ Seeker. He'd stumbled through the doors with an expression of surprise, as if he hadn't expected them to open quite so abruptly.

"Starscream!" he called, squinting into the room's comparative darkness. "Where are you?"

"Over here!" Starscream replied, waving his skinny arms above his now slightly-battered helm. That odd expression was back on his face, and now Knock Out knew what it was. It was joy. Sheer, unadulterated delight, as if the mere sight of this other mech had changed everything. 

The burdens of age and care were melting away, and… great Priumus, was Starscream _smiling?_ Well, maybe not quite. If anything, he seemed to be fighting _not_ to smile as the tall Seeker hurried toward him, wading hip-deep through the tide of escaping rioters. 

"It certainly took you long enough to get here," Starscream said, crossing his arms over his chest with a look of manufactured disapproval. 

"I'm so sorry," the giant replied as he reached Starscream, sweeping him up in his arms as if he weighed nothing. "At first, they wouldn't tell me where you'd been taken. I flew here as fast I could once I got it out of them, but when I found the place sealed off and and riot-control forces gathering outside, I—"

"Tried to crash your way in?" 

The big Seeker chuckled. "Something like that."

"I suppose you may be forgiven." The hard edges of Starscream's voice were softened by an unfamiliar layer of velvet, and when he burrowed his face into the mystery-mech's shoulder, he… _purred._

Knock Out could hardly blame him. A mutual appreciation for large frames was one of the few things he and Starscream had in common, and _this_ guy… well. 'Heavy-duty' didn't even begin to cover it.

He was the biggest Seeker Knock Out had ever seen. Dreadwing would have looked petite by comparison, and Starscream looked tiny. His frame was all white except for his distinctive blue helm-crest and the bold red slashes that marked his chest and wings. Wings that the big mech had swept forward to shelter Starscream from the downpour, as if the slim, wiry form in his arms was the most precious thing in his universe.

After a long moment, Starscream seemed to collect himself. "Ahem." He eased back from the big Seeker without quite leaving his arms. "Perhaps you could explain the immunity thing to my little friend over there," he said, gesturing toward Blades, "so that we can get out of here."

"Oh yes, certainly." The big Seeker extended an arm toward Blades, and a holographic card flickered out of subspace between his fingers. "Those are my credentials," he said. "I trust we're free to go?"

To Knock Out's untrained optic, the card looked very much like a government ID badge, but the stranger subspaced it before he had a chance to get a better look. Blades's expression, however, told… if not the _whole_ story, then at least half. 

"Um… y-yes, of course!" Blades stammered. "Sorry to have inconvenienced you. Um, sir."

The big Seeker gave him a hard look but accepted the apology with a nod. "Let's go." He scooped Starscream back into his arms, transformed _around_ him—he was that big!—and took off toward the doors. Within klicks, they were both gone.

"Well, well. Frag me with a pogo-stick," Pharma said as he transformed and alighted next to Knock Out. "Was that our very own Starscream flying off with some mysterious white knight, or am I caught in the throes of a hallucinex flashback?"

Knock Out turned slowly to look at him. "I… ah…" 

Nope, he was speechless. Perhaps for the first time ever. Pharma filled the gap with ease.

"All I can say is, those are going to be some _jumbo_ eggs." His mouth quirked in a smile as he turned to Retrograde. "Can we talk about my case now?"


	17. Hush, Hush

"That was one _epic_ cluster-frag," Pharma called over his shoulder. He was leading them along a series of winding alleys, using a route that neatly avoided the swarms of riot police, medics, reporters and onlookers that were still converging on the Documentation Center. "It's just lucky my quick thinking came to our rescue," he added with a smirk.

"Oh, of course," Knock Out replied, half running to keep up with Pharma's long strides. "I'm sure you stuck around entirely out of the goodness of your spark. It had nothing to do with an ongoing need for legal representation."

"Setting off the sprinkler system _was_ a smart idea," Retrograde put in. "Pharma might have saved a few lives back there."

Pharma gave her a look, as if sizing her up. "Why, thanks for noticing," he said, puffing out his chest. "I have to admit, it _was_ rather clever of me. And speaking as a general practitioner, saving lives is what I'm all about. Unlike some medics." He shot a smug glance at Knock Out. "Those who specialize in frivolous, yet profitable, _elective_ surgeries."

"And how fortunate that is for you," Knock Out replied acidly, "considering you could never afford a lawyer on your own."

Retrograde chuckled. "How long _have_ the two of you been bonded?"

They both whirled on her. 

_"What?"_ Knock Out demanded. 

_"Excuse_ me?" Pharma drew back in horror.

"Well you must admit, you _do_ act like an old married couple."

"I admit no such thing!" Pharma huffed. In a lowered voice, he added, "I'm actually single. In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't," Retrograde replied, "but thanks. So where is this hush-bar of yours?"

"This way." Pharma led them down an adjoining alley. After a block, it opened onto a huge, neon-lit canyon.

"It's in Media Plaza?" Knock Out asked, vaguely impressed despite himself. This was one of the most famous places on Cybertron, rivaled only by landmarks such as Darkmount.

"Media Plaza-adjacent," Pharma replied, sounding pleased. "Follow me."

Knock Out and Retrograde fell in step behind him as he headed along the plaza, threading between vending carts, commuters, and drifting gaggles of awestruck tourists. Media Plaza was modeled after Earth's Times Square, only on a far grander scale. Here, the sky was visible only in narrow strips between the rows of towering office buildings. This left street level in perpetual twilight, with the massive media displays that crawled up the sides of the buildings providing the main source of illumination. 

Media Plaza was the beating spark of the city's commercial district, but today there wasn't an advertisement in sight. Instead, the walls were collaged with a jumble of news-reports, all fighting for dominance in relating the day's narrative. Knock Out caught glimpses of the Documentation Center amid the scattering of footage, but coverage of the assassination attempt remained front and center.

"Oh look," Pharma said, pointing at the nearest screen. "There's Serenis."

And so it was. Even in the grainy, black-and-white security footage, Knock Out could see that his former professor had not changed. He still had that familiar, feverish glow in his optics, the same scars and stains from chemical mishaps on his plating, and the same general don't-bother-me-with-silly-questions-can't-you-see-I'm-working demeanor. 

Serenis had been an eccentric, through and through. He was the type of professor who hated teaching, and given the choice, would have preferred to simply live in his lab. Seeing him in _this_ context threw his inherent strangeness in an entirely new, and sinister, light. 

The footage showed Serenis stalking through what looked like a hotel ballroom, in which some kind of gala event going on. The room swirled with constellations of immaculately groomed high-castes. Knock Out could see some of them turning to note the grubby stranger in their midst, but Serenis was paying no attention to them. He was striding toward the back of the room, where a familiar figure stood.

Optimus Prime hadn't changed either. He towered head and shoulders above most of the other guests. Next to him was a pale, whip-thin Praxian with custom scroll-work on his doorwings. The two appeared deep in conversation, but they glanced up as Serenis appeared to speak. He'd drawn an object from his subspace and was waving it above his head. 

Knock Out—who'd half expected the item to be the laser-pointer Serenis had been fond of beaming into his students' optics—was shocked to see that it was, instead, a grenade. Everyone in the room seemed to realize this in the same moment. The guests began scrambling for the exits while Optimus launched himself at the would-be bomber. Serenis saw him coming, tossed the grenade, and the screen went white. 

_All_ the screens. 

Knock Out raised an arm to shield his optics from the sudden brilliance that flooded the Plaza. 

"That's the censored version," Pharma said, sounding almost bored. "It seems they want to give the impression that he died in the explosion, but it was actually the Prime's security detail that shot him down. You can get the real version on some of the back channels, if that's your thing."

Knock Out stared at him. "He was our _teacher,"_ he said slowly. As if that made a difference. It certainly didn't seem to make a difference to Pharma, who merely shrugged. 

"How well did you know him?" Retrograde asked quietly.

Knock Out shook himself. "Not well," he admitted. It wasn't that he hadn't seen death before. He'd seen plenty—and dealt a fair bit, too. He enjoyed horror movies and had been known to engage in a little recreational torture. Of Silas, most recently, but there'd been others. But that had been war, and this was… different. Somehow. "I only took one course with Serenis," he told Retrograde, "and I can't say it did my average much good."

Pharma snorted. "Ren was known for that. For my own part, I did rather well in his class. But then again… my name _is_ Pharma." 

Retrograde rolled her optics. "Is he _always_ like this?"

"No," Knock Out said. "Sometimes he's crass and annoying."

"Good to know."

The huge screens of Media Plaza went suddenly black, then red, bathing the street in an alarming, lurid glow. The logo of the Cybertronian News Network rushed toward them out of every screen, in a disorienting blur of pixels. A set of ten-story tall glyphs followed, announcing an exclusive report, and the screens dissolved into multiple, cyclopean images of Optimus Prime himself.

He looked slightly the worse for wear, but the damage appeared limited to a few cosmetic scrapes and scorch-marks to his plating. Iacon's famous Arch of Peace was clearly visible behind him, and as he began to speak, translations of his words scrolled beneath the images in a number of languages, both Cybertronian and off-world.

"Fellow Cybertronians," he began, his tone grave. "Today we have been shocked by a senseless act of violence. As far as we can tell, it was perpetrated by a lone, troubled individual. Our sympathies go to those who knew Serenis, and those who suffered injuries during his attack. As citizens of this great world, we must join together at times like these, and stand united. No action by any one individual must come between us and the peace we've all worked so hard to…"

"Blah, blah, blah," Pharma muttered, folding his arms. "Peace and love, Autobots and Decepticons living side by side, braiding flower garlands for each other and never even _thinking_ of blowing anything to hell. It's his boilerplate Reassure-the-Masses speech, number 12.5."

"Damage control," Retrograde put in; perhaps in agreement, or perhaps not. It was hard to tell with her. "I hear the perp was a Decepticon. With the inter-factional tension that's been bubbling beneath the surface lately, I can't blame them for trying to calm everyone down."

"Dragging everyone to the Doc center seems like a funny way to calm them down," Knock Out said, "Or have you forgotten that we just came from a riot?"

"Hmm, well…" Pharma's gaze swept appreciatively over Optimus' projected form. "At least he _looks_ good." He nudged Knock Out. "I don't suppose you ever tapped that, did you?"

Knock Out tore his gaze from the screen. "Tapped?"

"Well. You must admit he's dishy."

"Dishy perhaps, but also bonded."

"So?"

"Let's just say his conjunx isn't someone I'd want to mess with." Not if he didn't want be pinned to the nearest wall by a giant set of scalpels, and not in a fun way.

"Well," Pharma said, "I for one would be quite content to ride shotgun in _that_ particular hammer-lane."

"Ride?" Retrograde flicked her tail. "Or… be ridden?"

The startled look Pharma turned on her quickly became a smile. "I'm flexible," he said.

"Really?" She lifted a brow-ridge. _"How_ flexible?"

Knock Out cut in before Pharma had a chance to reply. "Fascinating as this is, perhaps we could get to the hush-bar sometime today? I _do_ have a business to run."

Pharma smirked but said nothing. He led them to the mouth of a passageway which opened between two massive office towers. As Knock Out entered the passage, a faint buzzing drew his attention skyward. He was just in time to see a pair of bulbous, winged silhouettes zip past one of the Optimus projections. He smiled. Just knowing the Insecticons were there made the situation feel less grim. 

They came to the end of the passage. Pharma produced a pass-key and waved it in front of the security panel next to an unmarked steel door. It was so nondescript that it might have been a service entrance. The door slid open, revealing an equally unremarkable lift. 

"Come here a lot, do you?" Retrograde asked as they stepped inside. 

"I'm a member," Pharma replied. "You never know when you'll need to have a private chat with someone."

"With the kind of business _you_ run, I can only imagine," Knock Out muttered.

Pharma smiled affably. "Indeed."

The door closed and the lift began to descend. Knock Out felt a lurch in his belly, and glanced downward with a frown. The eggs couldn't be subject to vertigo, could they? No. That was ridiculous. It had to be him. His balance had been slightly off-kilter since waking in the Hive— _how_ long ago? It was hard to believe it had only been yesterday. Less than a day-cycle, all told. He could only hope his body would adjust, and soon. 

The lift stopped, admitting them to a quiet vestibule. It was decorated in dark, soothing colors and a tasteful assortment of abstract holo-sculptures. Knock Out had seen the inside of quite a few hush-bars in his time, since he had clients who preferred total anonymity. While there was no way to guarantee that, meeting at a hush-bar rather than Knock Out's offices was one of the better options. 

"You can afford _this,_ but not your own lawyer?" Knock Out asked, giving Pharma a sidelong glance.

This hush-bar had the atmosphere of a private club. The kind of place that would be frequented by the high-caste crowd at the gala Serenis had crashed, not by a down-on-his-luck _general practitioner_ on the government's payroll. 

"Not _your_ caliber of lawyer," Pharma replied with a sly glance at Retrograde. She ignored him. He shrugged. "It's a business expense."

"I'm sure." Knock Out stepped toward a pair of dark, brushed-metal doors which could only lead to the hush-bar itself, but Pharma called after him.

"Wait up," he said. "You'll need to be checked over first. It's standard for non-members."

Even as he spoke, a pair of attendants were gliding from seemingly nowhere. One strode calmly up to Retrograde as if dealing with Sweeps was just another day's work. Knock Out couldn't help being impressed. The other attendant drew Knock Out to one side.

"We noticed from your scan that you're carrying a device that could be used to record conversations," he said in a low voice. "The hush-field will suppress its function, of course, but since you're a visitor we'd like to hang on to it while you're here. We do apologize for the inconvenience, but it's standard procedure."

He held his hand out expectantly. Knock Out stared at it. Scan? Of course. That must be what had caused the lurch he'd felt on the lift. But as for the device the attendant had mentioned…

"Do you mean my comm?" Knock Out asked in confusion. "If so, I'm afraid it's hard-wired."

"Oh no, not that." The attendant produced a datapad and held it so that only Knock Out could see what was on the screen. "It's this," he said, tapping his stylus against a highlighted area of Knock Out's body-scan. 

Knock Out barely glanced at it. Instead, his attention was focused on the shadowed area in the center of his belly. Was it something a security guard would notice, much less recognize? Perhaps not, though he could see them easily. He counted twelve. They looked surprisingly small without their protective gel coating, and his hands twitched with a near-irresistible urge to cradle and protect them.

"Erhm, sir?" the attendant said, clearing his vocalizer. "If you wouldn't mind handing it over? The device," he added, when Knock Out didn't immediately reply. 

"Oh yes, of course." Knock Out drew the offending item—a portable medical scanner—from his subspace and handed it over. "I trust these scans are confidential?" he asked. 

"Confidentiality is our business," the attendant said. "We take it very seriously."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Knock Out replied. He'd noticed Pharma and Retrograde watching him curiously, and moved to block their sight-line to the scanner. If Pharma were to stroll over and see what was on the screen… well. There was no way a _general practitioner_ wouldn't know a clutch of eggs when he saw them. "Just to make absolutely certain, though…"

Knock Out plucked the data-pad from the attendant's hand and deleted the scan. 

"Pleasure doing business," he said with a smile, handing it back. 

Pharma gave him a suspicious look as he joined them by the door. "What did you do?"

"Oh, nothing," Knock Out replied innocently as he strolled past them. "Just protecting your august reputation in this—" he paused as the brushed-metal doors whooshed open "—rather fancy establishment."

It really was right out of a movie. Well, a certain _genre_ of movie, at any rate. Film depictions of hush-bars ranged from greasy, crime-riddled holes-in-the-wall to opulent palaces resplendent with glitterati flitting about like shoals of exotic fishes in a particularly lavish tank.

This place was the type of hush-bar you'd see in a heist flick. It was the sort of backdrop against which corporate espionage and high-level financial conspiracies were plotted out, and it was, indeed, packed with what appeared to be the morning business crowd. 

Judging by the snatches of conversation Knock Out was able to glean as Pharma led them past the bar toward the back of the room, he guessed they'd gathered here to talk—in a hush-hush way—about how the assassination attempt was likely to affect markets. It seemed that today wasn't shaping up to be business as usual for anyone.

The back of the room comprised the hush-bar's truly private area. Here, as in most hush-bars, a large number of plush booths were tucked into the wall. Each was sectioned off by diaphanous, paper-thin screens woven from sound-cancellation fibers. Even the sound of their footsteps dampened as they approached an empty booth and settled inside.

Once they'd taken their seats, the booth sealed itself around them like the walls of a chrysalis. The screens, which were opaque from the outside, were translucent from within. Knock Out could still see the activity at the bar, but it was silent. There was no buzz of conversation, no clink of glasses, and no one from the outside would be able see or hear them, either. 

"Hmm, grub," Retrograde murmured approvingly as a set of holographic menu displays shimmered into existence above the table. "I could eat a Predacon." She gave Pharma a hooded look. "I trust you're buying?" 

"Why, of course. The least I can do is buy my lawyer some breakfast."

 _"Your_ lawyer, hmm?" Retrograde settled back in her seat, spreading her dark wings across the plush backrest as if it was her personal throne. "Just so long as you understand who's in charge."

Pharma's brows shot up, but then he smiled. "I see. Well, as I mentioned earlier," his wings dipped in submission, "I'm flexible."

"In that case, perhaps we can work out an accord."

"Ugh," Knock Out groaned. "If you two are _quite_ done picking out names for your future offspring, maybe we could talk about…" he trailed off as a familiar scent reached his olfactory sensors. It was _that_ smell. The aroma of his new best friend wafting out of the scent-enhanced menu like a seductive siren-call. 

"Hellooo, zinc." His belly growled as he tapped the menu selection—and then tapped it twice more when he noticed Pharma glaring at him across the table. "Thanks for breakfast, Pharm."

"Zinc?" Retrograde curled her lip. "That sounds unpleasant. Are you on a special diet?"

At that moment, a server-drone swooped up to their table with a tray bearing a covered dish. Knock Out, who was closest, slid back the privacy screen to retrieve it. He regretted doing so an instant later, when Retrograde lifted the lid to reveal that it was nearly overflowing with wriggling cobalt-worms. 

"Retro," Knock Out said, making a face. "I would _not_ talk about unpleasant diets if I were you."

Retrograde smiled. "This is a delicacy among my people. You really should try it before you knock it—Knock Out." She scooped up an enthusiastic portion and began chewing with gusto. Knock Out glanced away. At least she'd used her chopsticks rather than her fingers, but it was still something he'd rather not watch.

"Thank frag," he said a moment later, when a bottle of hi-grade arrived along with his own triple meal.

"Hey! That's _my_ breakfast," Pharma said, reaching across the table for the bottle as Knock Out uncorked it. 

Knock Out took one whiff and immediately set it down. "Consider it all yours," he said, pushing it away from himself. "It's gone rancid."

Pharma sniffed it. "Seems all right to me." He inclined the bottle toward Retrograde. "Would _you_ like some, milady?"

She sniffed it, then pushed her glass toward him. "Hit me."

Pharma poured each of them a glassful, though his watchful gaze lingered on Knock Out's triple helping of zinc ore-crunch.

"Get your own," Knock Out growled, noting the direction of his gaze. He dug in. It was a menu item he would have recoiled from in horror just yesterday. Today, the little granules of zinc floating in their bath of copper-scented oil seemed like the food of the gods.

Pharma's lips twitched in amusement. "If I didn't know better, I'd guess you were eating for two."

"Can't a mech be hungry?" Knock Out shot back, taking another a mouthful of the ore-crunch. How had he never noticed how _good_ this stuff was? "So anyway," he went on, between bites, "d'you suppose we could talk about the case now? That way, I can get to work and you two can get on with… whatever _your_ plans are for the day."

"Sounds like a good idea." Retrograde set down her chopsticks, suddenly all business. "We've established that you're both former students of the late perpetrator."

"Yes," Pharma confirmed. "Serenis taught pharmacology at the medical school we both attended."

She glanced between them. "The fact that you went to school together explains _so_ much."

"About the case?" Knock Out queried.

She smirked. "That too. Anyway, it appears your former prof was dealing in halcynium, a banned substance from which certain illegal drugs are derived. I trust you're both aware of this?"

"Of the dealing part, no." Knock Out glanced at Pharma, who was staring fixedly at the bubbles in his hi-grade. "Pharm?"

"Um, yes, well." Pharma set his glass aside. "Serenis was my main supplier. The Halcynol I've sold to you was made from the halcynium he provided."

"But Serenis owns _Serentex,"_ Knock Out said. For Retrograde's benefit, he added, "That's the company which manufactures the most popular heat drug on Cybertron. I don't understand why he'd undercut his own business by selling the precursor to an illegal version of his own flagship product."

"You answered that one yourself, not long ago," Pharma replied. "Serentex, Placidoquil, all those other legal drugs—they don't work well for everyone. For some, they don't work at all. That's especially true for Seekers."

Knock Out tried not to picture Starscream and his burgeoning clutch of eggs. Turning to Retrograde, he asked, "So what's the bottom line? If there is one."

"That remains to be determined," she replied. "Did the Security Service search either of your homes or places of business?"

Knock Out shook his head. "I certainly hope they didn't." He glanced at Pharma, who grimaced.

"You speak of my home and place of business as if they're separate locations," he said wryly. "Yes, they searched. And yes, they did come upon my client list."

Knock Out tensed. "There's a _list?_ Does it have my name on it?"

"Of course there's a list." Pharma waved dismissively. "Just because I'm running an illegal business doesn't mean I don't have paperwork. And yes, your name _is_ on it, but relax. It's encrypted."

"Pharma," Retrograde said in a warning tone, "unless you have top secret, military-grade encryption, I have bad news for you. Not only _can_ they de-encrypt it, but they can legally compel you to do it _for_ them. If they have probable cause, and a warrant."

A flicker of genuine worry broke through Pharma's smug veneer. "Seriously?"

"Oh yes." Retrograde toyed with her chopsticks. "So did they? Have a warrant, that is."

By way of an answer, Pharma drew a data-scroll from subspace and handed it over. Retrograde unrolled it, scanning the text while she continued to eat. "It looks legit," she said finally. "I'll go over it with a fine-toothed comb looking for errors, but if I don't find any, we may need to come up with a more creative defense. If, that is, either of you are ever actually charged with anything. That hasn't happened yet, and it might not. They're looking for a political assassination conspiracy, not a couple of small-time drug dealers."

"I don't _deal,"_ Knock Out said indignantly. 

She cocked a brow. "Noted, but many judges might consider that an academic distinction."

"So… chances are good that we have nothing to worry about," Pharma ventured hopefully. 

"Unless there's something else that could link either of you to the assassination attempt…" Retrograde paused, letting the sentence hang. When Pharma and Knock Out both shook their heads, she continued. "Then I think it's likely this will blow over. I want you both to sit tight and not do anything that might draw attention to yourselves. Don't talk to the media, don't talk to the cops, and don't take on any new 'clients.' You're not in the clear yet, and you don't know who could be working undercover. And if I find out you're keeping something from me, I'll turn you over myself. Understood?"

"Loud and clear." Pharma edged closer to her. "You know," he said, watching as she took another bite of her meal, "I've always been curious about those."

"Is that so?" Retrograde plucked a fat, wriggling cobalt-worm from the end of her chopsticks and held it out to him. "Try this one. I dare you."

"And that's my cue." Knock Out rose, ignoring their stares as he gathered his zinc. Like _he_ was the strange one. Easing the screen to one side, he flagged down a passing server-drone. "Can I get this wrapped to go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to Biting Moopie for being my awesome editor! Your suggestions were exactly on-point, and I'm so grateful to have you to look over my stuff before I send it into the world.


	18. You'd Better Have Canapes

Knock Out selected a crystal glass and set it on the polished bar-top where it would catch the light. Having a mini-bar in one’s office was, in his view, simply a mark of civilization. He picked out his favorite vintage of hi-grade, uncorked the bottle—and gagged.

"Ugh!"

He clapped the cork back in place and shoved the bottle to the far side of the bar, as far from himself as possible. "I really could have _used_ a drink, you know," he said, shooting a scowl at his belly.

The maggots—as he was affectionately coming to think of them—offered no response.

"What, exactly, does a mech need to go through to get any sympathy around here?” When there was still no answer, he stomped to his computer console and activated it with wave. "Cybertronian medical database," he growled. “Search term: Rangemaster.”

After arriving late to work, Knock Out had descended into a state of low-grade panic. He'd heard nothing further from Retrograde. Normally he’d have taken that as a good sign, but instead he’d spent much of the day darting nervous glances at the reception area's frosted-glass privacy doors, half-expecting a squad of armed Security Service agents to come storming through them, and jumping whenever the intercom chimed.

Finally admitting his inability to focus, Knock Out had handed off his afternoon surgery to First Aid and sequestered himself in here. A drink would have taken the edge off nicely, but apparently, the maggots had other ideas. Knock Out sighed. "Search within results,” he instructed the computer. “Parameters: carrying symptoms.”

The list of results that appeared was vanishingly short. No surprise. Rangemaster wasn’t a doctor, and the few articles of his which had made it into the medical database were largely ethnographic. They certainly didn’t constitute an obstetrics manual. Plus, if Rangemaster _had_ carried a few clutches of bug eggs, he might not wish confirm the rumors by appearing _too_ knowledgeable on the subject. 

Knock Out closed the medical database and, caving to morbid curiosity, turned to one of the news-portals. He’d managed to avoid the news since arriving at work, but perhaps knowing what was going on would help ease his anxiety. By now, the coverage had been taken over by talking heads. Each news channel had trotted out its own parade of experts to weigh in on the day’s events. Most were hashing out the same question that had been on Knock Out's mind: What would motivate the CEO of a highly successful pharmaceutical firm to assassinate the Prime?

Predictably, the experts kept circling back to the fact that Serenis had joined the Decepticons during the war. A few even had the nerve to suggest that someone who had devoted a large portion of his career to formulating heat-drugs probably shared some of the same mental and emotional 'instability' that his client base was known for. 

One commentator, well known for his incendiary opinions, was ranting about how Seekers had joined the Decepticons _en masse,_ and didn't that just prove that their primitive, hormone-driven nature made them treacherous? Was villainy not written into their very biology? And, most importantly, should this not be a clear message to the Prime that he and the elected council needed to ‘get tough’ with all former Decepticons, especially Seekers?

Knock Out groaned. 

It wasn't that anyone took that particular commentator seriously. Or, at least, they wouldn't admit to it. But Knock Out had seen this movie before, and he knew how it ended. He'd heard all the same rhetoric in the days leading up to the war, and he hoped the Prime was canny enough to recognize it as well. Megatron might have been consigned to the scrap-heap of history, but that didn't mean another couldn't rise in his place.

He was about to turn off the computer when a half-buried headline caught his attention: _Pharminex Corp Lands Legal Halcynium Contract._ Knock Out stared at the headline.

 _"Legal_ halcynium?"

Intrigued, he clicked on the article and began to read. Halcynium, it said, was to be removed from Cybertron’s list of banned substances. Now _that_ put a different spin on the morning's events, didn’t it? For one thing, it was no wonder that neither Knock Out nor Pharma had been charged with anything. The government’s prosecutors were too busy with real work to worry about black-market distribution of a substance that was about to become legal. 

"Huh."

Knock Out fired the article off to Retrograde with the subject line, _Legit?_ Of course even if it was legit, that wouldn't mean that he and Pharma were out of the woods. Halcynium wasn’t legal _yet,_ and since their 'crimes' had been committed while it was it was still a banned substance, they could still be charged if someone really wanted to pursue the matter. 

The question was, _did_ someone want to? Strongarm, the cop who’d questioned him back at the Documentation Center, had specifically asked about Pharma. It wasn’t hard to guess that her interest in Pharma had stemmed from his, and Knock Out’s, past connection to Serenis. The Security Service had been on a fishing expedition for evidence they could use as leverage to make either of them talk, and Pharma’s stupid client list was just the ticket.

_Damn you, Pharma._

A quiet knock interrupted Knock Out’s thoughts. "Come in," he called.

First Aid poked his head shyly through the door. "Hey boss! How are you doing?"

“I’d be doing better if you’d remember not to call me that.”

"Sorry b— er, Knock Out." First Aid stepped into the room, cradling a large box under his arm. His gaze flicked toward the mini-bar, no doubt taking note of the lone glass that sat forlorn and empty on the bar-top, though he made no comment. "The surgery went well," he remarked instead. “Shadeglider's resting in the recovery room."

"Of course it went well," Knock Out replied. "Shade was in expert hands the entire time."

First Aid flushed. He was just so... cute when he got bashful, Knock Out thought. Complimenting him was its own reward, though Knock Out had meant every word of what he’d said. He couldn't have asked for a better assistant, which made what he was about to say next a whole lot easier. 

"Since you’re here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” Knock Out began. He motioned for First Aid to come closer. "Have a seat."

First Aid approached warily and, as if sensing the importance of what Knock Out was about to ask, seated himself in the visitor chair rather than hopping up onto the edge of Knock Out's computer console like he usually did. Then again, his newfound decorum might also have had something to do with the large package he was carrying.

"What is that?" Knock Out asked, noting the logo of a medical research supply company on the parcel’s top-right corner.

"It's for a research project. A personal one," First Aid said, his flush deepening. "I'm… not sure if it's going to work yet, so…" He paused, cradling the package against himself as if it was a newborn sparkling. "I'll tell you about it if it works, okay?"

Knock Out smiled. "Fair enough. What I was going to ask is whether you'd be comfortable taking over my practice for…" he did some mental calculations "…possibly three to four orns? I'm hoping to take a vacation."

"A vacation?" First Aid brightened. “That’s a great idea! You could really use one.”

“Um… thanks?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it _that_ way, it’s just…” First Aid’s visored glance darted to the mini-bar, bounced off it and ricocheted, pinball-like, back to Knock Out’s face. “I’d love to, but…” he slumped. "I… I don't know, Knock Out. Do you suppose I'm _ready_ for something like that?"

Knock Out tried not to laugh. "You fill in for me all the time, ‘Aid.” Like when he was too hung over to perform a surgery, for instance. Not that it happened a lot. Maybe once an orn. Twice, tops. “You filled in for me just now. I have full confidence, or I wouldn't ask. I'll make sure to hire whatever additional support you think you'll need." Knock Out took a moment to make sure his tone radiated the sincerity he felt. "There's no one I'd rather leave in charge of this place."

First Aid’s gaze fell to the package in his lap. “Wow.” He stared at his hands, then finally glanced up. "Can I… think about it?"

"Of course. Just let me know soon, okay?"

First Aid nodded. "When were you thinking of leaving?"

More mental calculations. Knock Out had no idea at what point he'd begin to show in a truly _undeniable_ way, though he guessed it was safe to assume his third trimester would be the true danger zone. "In about six orns," he said. "I haven't finalized my plans."

"Okay, I'll let you know as soon as I can," First Aid replied. "Where are you going?"

"To a health spa." Knock Out shocked himself with how easily that answer came—and it wasn’t even a lie, he thought as he recalled Flitter's visit that morning. That luxurious bath, the delicious health-food… it had truly felt like a mini-vacation at Spa Bug. 

"You're going to a health spa for three to four _orns?"_ First Aid slid yet another glance toward the mini-bar, and Knock Out bit back a stab of annoyance.

“It’s not _that_ sort of thing,” he snapped. “If it was, I’d be leaving right now.”

Because of course he _knew_ how recovery houses worked. Not for any particular reason. He just happened to… know.

First Aid hung his head. “Sorry.” His gaze landed on the stack of takeout containers on the corner of Knock Out's desk. “Is that… zinc?” he asked with a slight frown.

"Why, yes it is." Knock Out had polished off all three helpings of the zinc ore-crunch he’d brought back with him from the hush-bar. Only a few granules of ore remained, now soggy. The maggots might be hungry, but their carrier wasn’t desperate enough to eat soggy ore-crunch. At least, not yet.

"I thought so," First Aid said, giving Knock Out a newly appraising glance. "It's nice to see you eating healthier."

"Health _is_ what we do around here," Knock Out replied, unnerved by the change in First Aid’s expression. He looked… _worried_ now. Damn. He hadn't meant to sound worrying. Maybe he just wasn't used to having anyone in his life who _did_ worry for him. He was out of practice with this stuff. "I'm fine. I'd tell you if I wasn't. I just need some time away."

First Aid gave a hesitant nod. "Okay. Sure, yeah. I guess we all do." He stared at Knock Out for a moment longer, started to rise, then paused. "Um. I'm having a get-together at my place next orn. I've invited some of my med school classmates, as well as some of the rooftop ping-pong gang."

"It's a gang now, is it?" Knock Out asked with a chuckle, relieved by the subject change. When First Aid had discovered a Cybertronian-sized ping-pong table in an antique shop, he'd brought it to work, set it up on the roof, and started organizing teams. 

"Well, we call ourselves that," First Aid replied with a shy grin. "Anyway, would you like to join us?"

A room full of fresh-faced young idealists, just like First Aid? Great. That didn’t sound exhausting at all. Then again, it might also be entertaining, and it could also help take his mind off things. "I'll check my calendar," Knock Out said, rising himself. "If I'm free, I'll join you." He began clearing away the take-out cartons, but First Aid beat him to it. 

"Oh, are you done with those? I'll get them!" First Aid began gathering up the containers, balancing them awkwardly atop the package. "We'll be discussing the new book after. You can borrow my copy of it if you want."

"The new what, now?" Knock Out gave him a narrow look. "Dare I ask what kind of shindig I’ve just signed myself up for?"

"Oh!" First Aid blinked behind his visor. "I guess I didn't mention. It's not exactly a _party._ We’re going to be watching Rangemaster's presentation, broadcasting from Titan. He’ll be talking about his new book; that’s the one I told you about the other day, remember?”

“Um…” Knock Out drew a blank. “I’ve had a busy couple of days,” he said. Busier than First Aid would ever know, that was for sure. “Care to refresh my memory?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry. It’s the one about how the natural predator-prey relationships between Beastformer species prevented them from forming alliances. Rangemaster thinks that if they’d been able to unite, they could prevented the caste system from getting established. Can you imagine? If he’s right, it means that Beastformers could have saved civilization!”

“Quite the irony,” Knock Out agreed wryly. He’d been rather hoping Rangemaster’s ‘new book’ would turn out to be an obstetrics manual titled along the lines of, _What to Expect When You’re Expecting Maggots,_ but no such luck. Also: so much for any hope of being entertained. "That sounds… very, um…" Knock Out paused, to think of a diplomatic term for ‘pointless,’ but failed. 

"Fascinating—right? We're going to participate in the Q&A session, and then have our _own_ discussion afterward. Be prepared—there’ll some strong opinions present, and things _could_ get a little heated!”

“I’ll… be sure to bring my flame-proof drink holder,” Knock Out said. Not that he’d be drinking anything stronger than Ener-Fizz if the maggots had anything to say about it. Which they most certainly did. What the frag had he just _agreed_ to? 

“I’m glad you're coming,” First Aid said. “It's going to be amazing.”

“I’m sure it’ll be… something,” Knock Out replied, suddenly weary. The day's events were catching up to him. "If everything's handled with Shadeglider, I think I’ll head home early."

"Everything’s fine,” First Aid said, following Knock Out to the door. “You should get some rest, after the kind of morning you’ve had. I’ll bring in my copy of the book tomorrow so you can start to prepare.”

Knock Out managed not to roll his optics. "All I can say is, you'd better have canapes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my always patient editor, Biting Moopie! Especially for reading multiple drafts of this chapter on short notice. You are amazing. <3


End file.
